


sliding doors iv

by ont



Series: mockingbird [16]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alcoholism, Angst, Band Reunion, California Wildfires, Canon Compliant, Ex Drama, F/F, Family Drama, Fistfight, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Marital Issues, Midlife Crisis, Natural Disaster, Past Mpreg, Relapse, ex-BFF tension, general bad behavior but general good intentions, if you hang a civil defense siren on the wall in sliding doors 1 it must go off in sliding doors 4, many identity crises, non-traditional ABO dynamics, parental angst, parenting, sibling dynamics, stepchild adoption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 22:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 94,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18291194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ont/pseuds/ont
Summary: They all turn and look back toward the stage. Multicolored blobs swim in Louis’ vision, but he sees Zayn appear, clear as day, and start gliding toward them down the catwalk.Wembley explodes in a riot of sound, just like they wanted. It’s one of those rare pure shock moments, the kind that barely exist anymore since the Internet took over the world. A real, sincere, you-had-to-be-there sort of thing.As the boys embark on their first tour as a five-piece in 21 years, they face a lot of their usual drama… plus a little extra.





	1. Chapter 1

CALABASAS, JUNE 8, 2027

It’s raining for the first time in several months.

Zayn sits outside Liam and Louis’ house for a while. He doesn’t even turn his car off, just sits there with the Maybach’s engine purring, burning gas. He’s so spent from crying and yelling that his head feels like a balloon. He notices with relief that Louis’ Aston Martin is still here, while the Range Rover that Liam prefers to drive isn’t. Of course that doesn’t mean anything; they have dozens of cars in their garage, and Louis would have taken the Range Rover if he was driving the kids somewhere.

Rain thunders off his windshield as he sits, wipers off, just watching it sluice downward. Finally, he grabs his umbrella off the passenger seat and leans out of the driver’s side door, popping it open before ducking under it and hurrying up to the front door.

Zayn buzzes for a while without an answer, and then to his relief he hears Louis’ distant voice: “COMING, OI, COMING!”

The door swings open. Louis is standing there, a toddler on his hip. It must be Patrick — he’s the one who has Louis’ hooded eyes, like Mia, and Louis’ ability to point a laser stare at you as if he’s laying your soul bare.

Zayn knows that’s a crazy thing to think about a two-year-old, but he avoids Patrick’s gaze anyway. “Hey,” he says.

Louis gives him a once-over and seems to immediately intuit that something is wrong. “Hey,” he says, then steps back to welcome Zayn inside.

Zayn stands mutely in the grand foyer, watching as Louis sets his son down so he can take Zayn’s umbrella and jacket and stow them away. Patrick tries to toddle off, and Louis (without even turning around) sternly says, “Paddy, stop.”

Zayn, now jacketless and still damp from when he stormed out of his and Harry’s Malibu house earlier, shivers in his t-shirt. Liam and Louis keep their house cool. “Can we talk?” he says.

“We’ll go in the den,” Louis says to him. “I’ll do a fire.”

Zayn glances down at Patrick, who’s clinging to Louis’ leg and peering up at Zayn.

“Mims can watch him,” Louis says. “He’s supposed to be napping like his brother, but he’s incorrigible. Aren’t you?” he addresses his son.

Patrick shakes his head.

“You don’t even know what that means,” Louis says, smiling. “How d’you know you aren’t it?”

“No,” Patrick says firmly.

“Alright, then. MIA!”

It takes a moment, but Mia comes thundering down the stairs, dark ponytail bouncing and a tablet in her hand. “Wha-at?” she snaps at Louis, then notices Zayn. “Dad! Hi…”

“Hi Yasmeen,” Zayn says quietly. His heart aches at the sight of her.

“What’re you doing here?” she says. “It’s Tuesday… plus I thought you weren’t having us at all over the summer.”

Her tone is a bit cold, not that he can blame her, but it stings him all the same. Zayn wishes desperately that he could just tell her what’s been going on.

She’s gotten more grown-up in the last few months alone, Mia. She’s had a growth spurt since turning eleven, and she seems to have a preternatural sense for when Zayn is in a state of personal crisis.

“Your dad came over to have a chat with me,” Louis says.

“About what?”

“Some adult business. Can you just keep an eye on your brother for a bit?”

Mia looks exasperated. “Why do you always ask me? You ask me way more than Amir and Sunday!”

“I’m sorry, sweets. You’re just better with them, I trust you not to let him smash his head off of things, okay? It’ll only be for a little bit.”

She sighs. “Fine.”

“Thanks, love. Go on,” he says to Patrick, who scrambles up the stairs after Mia.

She looks down at him resignedly. “I’m doing my homework,” she says. “You can’t bother me. You have to play quietly.”

“Okay” Patrick chirps, and she takes his hand.

“And Mia,” Louis says, “if he happens to fall asleep, just let him sleep. Even if it’s on the floor or in a laundry basket or sommat.”

She laughs. “Fine,” she says, then tugs her brother along. They head up the rest of the stairs together, and disappear into the hall.

Louis turns to Zayn, his face different. “So what’s wrong, then?” he says.

Zayn’s lungs compress inside his chest like twin accordions. He can’t seem to find the words, and then they slip desperately out of him: “Ahh… Harry had another miscarriage this morning.”

Louis covers his mouth with his hand. “Nooo, oh my God... I’m so sorry, mate.”

“And he’s gone. After we left the doctor’s, he took his plane and went to England. He didn’t want me with him. He had an, uh — he had a Radio 1 spot, and I told him he should cancel, but he refused, and he didn’t want me along, he said he’d just be crying if I was around, and he didn’t want to. An’ we had this horrible row, and he left, he’s in the air right now. And I felt...“

Louis’ face drops like he knows what Zayn is going to say.

“Felt like I was gonna drink,” he finishes.

“Okay. Hey, I’m here. Let’s go talk.”

Zayn stands rooted to the spot. “Where’s the missus?”

“Liam’s in the city. He’s performing with Tyler on Corden’s new show.”

“Live?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay,” Zayn says in relief. “So, you’re just alone here with five kids?”

Louis laughs. “Not as horrendous as you make it sound. C’mon, lemme get you in front of a fire, you’re shivering.”

They go down the hall and into the den, where Zayn takes a seat on the massive leather sectional and Louis goes over to toss some fresh kindling in the fireplace and light it up. There’s the sound of clanging metal as he puts the grate back up, and then Louis comes over to Zayn, who looks at him with the sort of exhausted disassociation experienced by someone recovering from a huge outburst of emotion.

Louis settles daintily next to him on the couch, adjusting his t-shirt. Zayn feels the same fleeting attraction to him that he always does when they’re alone in close quarters. It’s the familiarity of his smell, the vulnerability of his self-conscious body language, his knowledge that if he dragged Louis in for a kiss, he might hesitate for a moment to fight him off.

Louis didn’t used to be as self-conscious. He used to be so jubilant. The wears and tears of adulthood have made him retreat inside his head; it always makes Zayn want to chase after him.

He could just reach out and lay a hand on his thigh. Louis wouldn’t reject him by moving it away, not when he’s introduced the threat of breaking his sobriety. He does miss Louis once in a while. His laugh, his slight body. The chaotic swirls of tattoos on him.

Zayn knows he has to stop this. His therapist would tell him he’s letting himself be triggered into the grandiose, rash thinking of hypomania. Louis is a person, not a toy for him to use. But how is he supposed to comfort himself, after he woke up this morning and went into the bathroom to find a bloodied Harry sobbing raggedly in the shower, and talking to him was like talking to someone through fifty feet of glass?

Harry had sat through the doctor’s appointment in silence and packed his things for London before the garbage men had even picked up the bins. Nothing Zayn said made any difference. It seemed to bring Harry grief to even look at him or hear his voice. He kept telling Zayn he was sorry, even after Zayn begged him to stop.

“Hey,” Louis says gently. “Why don’t you call your sponsor?”

“I’m between sponsors right now,” Zayn mutters. “Last one leaked to TMZ.”

“Oh, Zayn. I’m sorry...”

“Yeah.”

“You really ought to have one, right now.”

A single tear leaks from Zayn’s left eye. “Yeah.”

“If you want to kip here tonight, you can.”

“I shouldn’t do this to you,” Zayn mutters. He looks up at Louis, who has a tender expression on his face. “I know how… I know wot you feel about, like, me making you responsible for my sobriety.”

Louis smiles ruefully. “All I said was once, years ago, that me therapist said we were a bit codependent. The _co_ is the important bit.”

“But I’m the drunk.”

“Ah, mate...”

Zayn leans his elbows onto his knees and rubs his palms together. “I don’t think I’ll actually drink. I just don’t want to be alone.”

“Stay, then,” Louis says in a light tone. “C’mon, stay for dinner at least. Have dinner with your kids, you’ve barely seen them this summer.”

Zayn feels another stab of shame. “Right.”

“When’s Harry land?”

“Midnight our time.”

“Stay here ‘til he lands, then give him a ring. I’m sure he wants to talk to you. He loves you, alright? I think he just isn’t used to being all-in with somebody.” Louis pauses, then adds, “His last marriage, they were always apart, weren’t they? And he didn’t love him. He’s never loved anyone like he loves you. And you’re both going through something terrible. Maybe he feels guilty, like he’s hurting you by miscarrying, and he wants to quarantine himself.”

“I keep feeling like he’s gonna leave me,” Zayn rasps. He stares at the fire without seeing it; it flickers in his vision. He can distantly hear the rain pounding the house.

“He’s not me,” Louis says.

“Right,” Zayn says. “You never really loved me.”

“Zayn,” Louis says, in a soft, wounded way. “Don’t do that. It isn’t fair to either of us. Look, you two can get through this. Just give him the bit of space he needs, and he’ll come back. He needs you. He waited fifteen years for you.”

More tears rise to Zayn’s eyes. “Sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I’m sorry…”

“C’mere.” Louis pulls him into a hard hug, squeezing him.

 

*

 

The seven of them have a nice takeaway dinner of burgers. Zayn finds it sort of fun to see what his kids are like when they aren’t at his house, with him as the parent in command. It’s nice to let Louis do all the work while he just has his little sly jokes with them, stealing fries off Amir’s plate when he’s run out of his own and then pretending he has no idea what his son is talking about when he protests.

He was afraid Mia and Amir would be too upset with him to enjoy their time together, but kids are forgiving. They’re tepid with him at first, then warm back up after he promises he’ll be with them on Father’s Day.

Louis heads into in the big parlor after dinner with the twins to watch Liam perform. Zayn, who’s growing antsy (Harry must not be on the plane WiFi, because iMessages to him aren’t getting delivered) mindlessly follows him out of a need to be distracted.

“Hey,” Louis says to him, settling down on the soft, cobalt-blue couch. His sons scramble after him, each tucking themselves under one of his arms. “You don’t have to watch this, y’know.”

Zayn shrugs and takes a seat a few feet down from him.

“I don’t even like the song very much,” Louis mutters.

Zayn's relieved to have some pettiness to distract himself from the storm of anxiety, anger and self-hatred lashing at the insides of his gut and chest. “Yeah?” he says with a grin.

“You didn’t hear me say that,” Louis says, smiling back and reaching up to stroke each of the twins on the head. They’re not paying attention; they’re staring up at the TV, which has a funny Tide commercial on. “I like Liam’s parts, of course. I just don’t love a lot of the writers they had on it, but…” He shrugs.

“Sunday not want to watch?” Zayn says.

“Nah, she never watches him perform, she says it’s weird. Says it makes her sad ‘cos he’s not being himself.”

Zayn snorts. Sunday is such a serious little soul, even more serious than Amir.

Louis’ phone rings. He extricates his arm out from under Max, picks it up and says in disbelief, “Are you not _literally_ about to go on?”

Must be Liam. Zayn zones out, staring down at his Rolex, counting the diamonds embedded around the face.

“We’re watching! Yeah. Fuck’s sake… yeah, tell him I say hullo too, now get off the phone!” Louis pauses, then laughs. “I won’t. Okay. Break a leg, love. Yeah, alright, but real quick.” He puts the phone on speaker for a moment and says, “Say hi to your dad, boys.”

“Hi,” they chorus at the phone.

“Hi lads,” Liam’s fond voice rings out.

“He nervous?” Zayn says, after Louis has hung up.

Louis tucks his phone back in his breast pocket. “A bit. Think he just needs me to yell at him, sometimes.”

The next few minutes of the commercial break pass interminably. Zayn bounces his gaze around the room. He’s almost never in here; Louis and Liam tend to save it for house parties, and he never actually shows up to their parties. There’s a nautical theme going on, dark blue walls with gold and white accents everywhere, and a gorgeous grand piano in the back corner.

Corden’s show returns, and there’s the standard boring patter as he introduces Liam and Tyler. The camera pans over to them as they walk out. Liam is smiley, his gait bouncy. If he is nervous, he doesn’t look it.

“Look,” Louis murmurs to the twins, pointing. “It’s Daddy.”

Max stares up at the TV, seeming confused, but Patrick points too and repeats, “Daddy!”

“Yeah. He’s on the TV.”

“How?” Max says, sounding upset.

Louis laughs. “I’ve just realized I have no idea how television works,” he says to Zayn. “It’s radio waves, innit?”

Zayn nods. “That’s about all I know too,” he admits.

“Shush,” Patrick adominishes both of them.

Max looks desperately at Louis, and reaches up to pat at his phone. “Daddy?”

“He can be on the phone _and_ on the TV, love,” Louis says.

Max looks troubled by this, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Zayn doesn’t much want to watch Liam perform, so he watches Louis instead. He looks pleased and proud, but there’s a bitter wistfulness to him, at the same time. He keeps twisting his wedding band on his finger.

Louis clears his throat like he’s noticed Zayn’s gaze. “You know what pisses me off,” he says. “Liam’s doin’ this live, but Tyler’s lip-syncing. I mean, that’s his choice, but.”

“Liam’s good live,” Zayn says, more out of kindness to Louis than lingering loyalty toward Liam.

“He is, I just worry about him hitting a fiddly note.”

“Don’t put that out in the universe.”

Louis laughs. He cuddles the twins closer, kissing a still-worried Max on the head. Zayn finds the ache in his chest growing and deepening as he watches them, and his grief becoming more and more difficult to stuff down.

The happy family moment is interrupted, though, by Max‘s mismatched eyes welling up with tears. The confusion has apparently gotten to be too much for him.

“Shh, shh,” Louis says gently, pulling his son’s head to his chest and stroking his hair. “Hey, everything’s fine, love. We’ll ring him when he’s done so he can tell you he hasn’t vanished into the telly dimension.”

Zayn’s phone finally dings, then. His heart leaps —  it’s Harry.

_Sorry I ran off. I don’t even want to do the interview, I think I’m going to have to cancel._

_nick will understand,_ Zayn says.

_He will. better to do it in person anyway though. then at least I can bribe him_

_lol. i guess_

_Are you angry with me?_ Harry says.

Zayn closes his eyes for a moment. _a bit. more worried about you. just come home please_

_I will. im sorry. this is just the worst feeling, there’s nowhere in the world that would feel good to me right now._

_not even being with me? what about there,_ Zayn types angrily, no longer weighing his words. _fucking thanks_

_That’s not what I meant._

_were in this together. im hurting too_

_I know. I’ll call you when I land_

_whatever_

Zayn tosses his phone aside, somehow feeling even worse than he was before. Perhaps in a bid to distract Max from his existential crisis, Louis is roughhousing a bit with the boys on the couch, now. They’re climbing all over him, giggling and shrieking as he tickles them.

Zayn’s actually angry, looking at them. Why do you get two sons with the love of your life and I’ve got nothing but pain and death with mine?

“Harry just texted, he’s fine,” he mutters. “Still in the air.”

Louis looks up, mid-tickle. “Good, good.”

Zayn stares at the twins, barely seeing them. “Weird that they’re blonde,” he mutters.

“They aren’t, really,” Louis says. “Just towheads. They’ll end up like me and Payno, I’m sure.”

“So you didn’t cheat on him with some blonde, then?” Zayn winces as soon as he says this, remembering far too late that he himself had cheated on Louis with some blonde.

But Louis has the grace to laugh and say, “No, not that I can remember.”

Zayn clears his throat. “Yas was born with a whole head of black hair, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah, people kept tellin’ me, you must’ve had heartburn! But it’s funny, I never really did.” Louis strokes Max’s head. “She was a lovely baby… both of ours were, weren’t they?”

Zayn nods.

 

*

 

Zayn helps Louis put the twins to bed. He seems to be an old hat at it, but he tells Zayn that he does appreciate having an extra pair of hands during the teeth-brushing portion of the evening.

“That’s too much,” Louis says, as Zayn squirts toothpaste onto a Captain America brush for Max. “Way too much. They’re two, remember, they only get a little.”

“Alright,” Zayn sighs, rankled at being brought back so sharply to when they were married and Louis was always bossing him about things to do with the kids.

He thinks very grimly, _I don’t have to remember that anyway, ‘cos I’m probably never gonna have another kid_ , then shoves the thought from his mind. He runs the brush under the sink until the toothpaste flops off, and hands it to Max.

This act seems to designate Max as his charge for the evening; when they’ve finished and Louis says, “Bedtime,” Max lifts his arms to Zayn. Zayn looks back at him, nonplussed, then shrugs and scoops him up. Max’s paternity isn’t his fault, nor is his guileless expectation of affection from every living thing in a ten mile radius of himself.

“Zayn, you don’t have to,” Louis says, like he thinks Zayn holding a baby will fatally wound him with grief and jealousy.

“I don’t mind,” he says.

He really doesn’t. Max is a pleasant weight in his arms, and the way he clings around Zayn’s neck, trusting him implicitly, is a nice feeling he’s forgotten since his own kids have grown too old to pick up like this.

He drops sleepy Max into his little racecar bed and tucks him in. Meanwhile Patrick, who’s probably overtired from his lack of a nap, throws a tantrum as Louis is shepherding him back out of the en suite bathroom. “ _No,”_ he screams, hitting Louis in the leg.

Louis kneels down on the floor and takes him by the wrists. “Hey,” he says. “We don’t hit.”

Max is already drifting off to sleep. Zayn casts one backward glance at him, just to make sure he’s not going to make a break for it, then cautiously comes toward Louis.

Louis seems to have things well in hand, though. Patrick is exhausted enough that his outburst has wrung him dry of tantrums — he’s just crying in Louis’ arms now. Louis wraps him up and starts murmuring comforting things to him, stroking his hair and kissing him on the head.

Now the grief comes. It clutches at Zayn’s heart like a scrabbling hand. His own eyes prickle with heat and well up.

Louis sings softly to his son, rocking him in his arms. He gets gingerly to his feet and carries Patrick over to his bed, tucking him in and pressing another kiss to his forehead. Patrick mumbles some sleepy toddler nonsense, and Louis laughs sweetly in response.

A tear has run down Zayn’s cheek by the time Louis turns around. He comes over, stroking Zayn’s hair like he just stroked Patrick’s.

“You alright?” he whispers.

Zayn just nods.

They watch dumb telly for the next few hours, not talking except to comment on football games as they flip by them, or remark on the recent strange weather. Louis gets another call from his husband at half nine, and Zayn surmises from his half of the conversation that Liam will be home in a few hours. He makes a mental note to be out of here by then.

Possibly as a way to console him, Louis invites Zayn to help him tuck Mia and Amir into bed (they’re too old for it now, but they don’t protest). They each ask him to stay for breakfast, and he doesn’t want to disappoint them, so he says, “We’ll see,” which makes Mia sigh in resignation and makes Amir’s eyes harden with hurt. Louis kindly pretends not to notice this while it’s happening.

Zayn lingers in the hall while Louis says goodnight to Sunday. He comes out rubbing his palms together, shuts Sunday’s door and whispers to Zayn, “Want to smoke some weed?”

Zayn nods emphatically, and they go down to the kitchen (the tallest-ceilinged room in the house, Louis explains, so the smell won’t linger) and settle at the island, trading a fat joint back and forth.

“Must be tough to look after all five,” Zayn says, ashing directly onto the marble counter.

Louis slides a paper towel over to him. “I’m used to it. The older ones are easy, now.”

“Is Liam gone a lot, lately? Seems like he’s been working loads.”

“He’s not gone that much,” Louis says, looking prickly. “What’s with you always banging on about that?”

“Huh?”

“You did that while I was pregnant with the boys, too, always like, _oh, where’s Liam gone?_ every time he’d popped down to the shops for ten minutes.”

Zayn bristles. “I didn’t do that.”

“You did,” Louis insists. “I sort of feel like, y’know…”

“What?”

“Just that whenever you and Harry are going through a tough time, you start in on me and Liam’s relationship.”

“That’s nice,” Zayn says acidly. “Throw it in my face that my partner and I’ve had two miscarriages.”

“That’s not what I meant at all!”

“If I keep seein’ you stuck alone in a house wiv five kids and that look on your face like you’re so bored to tears you’re suicidal, I’m gonna ask where your husband’s got off to.”

“ _Please_ , I’m not anywhere near suicidal, fuck’s sake! What, you think I’m like — I’m that poet bird, put me kids to bed then go stick me head in the oven?”

Zayn blinks at him. “Who?”

“And by the way, I seem to remember you leaving me alone with _our_ kids when you had to work!”

“That was two, not five —“

“And who’s the one who decided he was givin’ up custody this whole summer?”

“You know exactly why I did that!” Zayn barks. “You know I can’t keep a shred of order in that house right now! Fuckin’ mess, I can barely keep my head on straight, can’t even keep Harry in the same country with me! You want to expose them to that? Haven’t they suffered through enough chaos and bullshit?”

Louis softens. “Yeah. I know. That’s why I agreed to this arrangement in the first place.”

Zayn exhales shakily, staring down at his tattooed hands, clenching his fists so his rings dig into his fingers. A long moment of silence elapses between them.

“We’re just in a weird nanny situation,” Louis says. “Agnes went back to Poland to take care of her mum last month, and I haven’t been able to find anyone I like as much as her, or anyone who can handle the twins half as well as I can. And I’m here all day anyway, so.”

Zayn nods. “I know. I didn’t mean to slag Liam off, I just worry about you.”

“I know you do.”

“I thought you had stuff you were gonna be workin’ on?”

“I did,” Louis says. “Just still sort of on the back burner for now. I didn’t realize what I was getting meself in for when I decided to have another baby. Well, I had no idea it was gonna be twins, either. But, um.” He clears his throat. “Last thing I should be complaining to you about right now, mate, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Zayn assures him. “I brought it up.”

“Right.” Louis takes the joint from him and has a hard drag off it, then exhales and says, “Look, if it doesn’t, um… happen the way you two planned… it’ll be alright. You’ve got other options.”

Zayn clears his throat roughly. Tears gather in his eyes again. “Think he really wanted to have my baby, though,” he says. “For some reason.”

Louis smiles wanly at him. “You do make nice babies.”

Zayn chokes out a laugh. Louis comes over to him and wraps him up in a hug again, arms around his neck. His hugs are nice: comforting, almost childlike squeezes. Zayn presses a kiss to his bearded cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says again. “For all of this… it’s just rotten, it is.”

Zayn lets his hand drift down to the soft fabric of Louis’ sweatpants, where they’re tight around his bum. He squeezes a quick handful.

Louis lets out a surprised, breathy laugh. “Fuck are you doing?”

“Just wondering if it felt the same,” Zayn murmurs. It does; it’s as squeezable as ever, which makes him want to do that again, but Louis reaches up and dislodges Zayn’s hand.

“Quit it,” he says, his voice a bit sharper, though still playful. “Cheeky…”

Zayn feels the weed getting to him, after the hysteria of his unreal day. He draws back from Louis and kisses him full on the mouth, like he was thinking about doing earlier. His lips are soft, and their beards bristle pleasantly against each other.

Louis doesn’t immediately stop the kiss, so Zayn grips his waist and presses himself harder into his warm, welcoming body.

Louis jerks away, then. “Knock it off,” he says, his eyes hard and glittering now. He looks seriously pissed.

“What?” Zayn says, knowing he’s badly in the wrong but wanting to wriggle out of it somehow. “Me and you were _married_ , come on. I’m not even remarried yet.”

“Hey, _I_ fuckin’ am! Very happily so! Even if I weren’t, if I tell you not to fuckin’ touch me, that means you take your fuckin’ hands off me!”

“Fine. Sorry.”

“Are you out of your mind, Zayn? Harry’s just miscarried your baby!”

The way Louis says this, it sounds like the fact has just re-occurred to him, and caused him a horrible spasm of guilt when it did.

“I’m aware,” he says coolly.

“How d’you think he’d feel about you touching me like that right now?”

“Christ, Louis, I said I was sorry!” Angry now, Zayn snaps, “Why’d it take you so long to stop me, if I’m such a monster?”

“It got to the point where you were crossin’ a line, and you know it.”

“Well fuck me for not knowing where the line is! Like you’ve ever made _that_ clear!”

“Why do you always do this? Why can’t I just have a nice moment with you?”

“I can’t kiss you once in a while? We’re always gonna love each other, we’re always gonna… you know…”

Louis just looks sad, now, which hurts even worse. “What do you want from me?”

“I dunno.”

“You just miss Harry,” he says in that decisively distrustful way of his. “You just want me to comfort you.”

“This is so hard,” Zayn whispers. “I don’t think you understand how hard it is, like. How alone we’ve felt. How alone I feel when he’s right next to me, even. Some days he’s just a ghost.”

“I know...”

“I’m doing it to you again, aren’t I. The co-dependent thing…”

Louis squeezes Zayn’s hand. “Why don’t you go lie down for a bit? You look exhausted.”

 

*

 

Zayn falls asleep in one of the guest bedrooms, his shoes off but his jeans still on. He wakes a few hours later to voices in the hallway. He pricks his ears to listen, his eyes burning as they adjust to the darkness.

“... splitting up, are they?”

“No, no, I don’t think so,” he hears Louis whisper. “It’s just been hard on them. I mean, you can imagine.”

“No, I know,” Liam says. “So, um. He just showed up here?”

“Yeah, Payno, his kids live here.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t come out here just to see the kids,” Liam says pointedly.

“What’s that mean?”

“I mean he came to see you.”

“Well, yeah, I’m an adult who he can actually talk to about this sort of thing. It’s not like we’ve told the kids what’s going on.”

“He’s been leaning on you a lot while they’ve been going through this.”

“‘Cos Harry, bless him, can’t communicate an emotion to save his life.”

Liam’s quiet for a moment. “I just don’t know how healthy that is.”

“I don’t either, but I dunno what to do.”

“You could set more boundaries with him.”

Zayn leans against the door. In his nastier moments, he wouldn’t give Liam credit for being this shrewd or incisive, but hearing his secret thoughts about the situation, he has to admit that Liam knows him a lot better than he’d like to think. He probably intuits why Zayn really came here today even more than Louis does.

And like clockwork, Louis protests: “I do! But, like, he’s the father of my children —“

“I’m the father of your children,” Liam says patiently.

“I’ve got four kids, Liam.”

“I know. I have three.”

“And _your_ ex is barely in your life.”

“I’m not criticizing you. I just think you always feel a bit like you’ve got to take care of everyone, especially lately.”

“Lately? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Since you haven’t been working much.”

“Hmm,” Louis says sarcastically. “Interesting. You think raising your children’s not work, then?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Has everyone been getting together behind me back to discuss how pathetic I am?”

“ _What_? Louis, no.”

“Stay-at-home Louis? Washed-up, put-upon Louis, can’t even getting fuckin’ _Simon_ to return his calls lately, how sad! God, maybe I shouldn’t‘ve even got me tubes tied, what was the point? Should’ve just kept cranking out babies!”

“Babe, I never meant anything of the sort. You’re just having a small dry spell, it’s not your fault. You’re bringing up these kids, you’re doing a wonderful job, and I think we’re partners in that, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Louis mutters.

“I might’ve come off dicky,” Liam says. “I didn’t mean to, I’m in a defensive mood… feel a bit shit about my performance.”

“Oh, come on, you did great, love. Don’t be stupid.”

“Felt like my energy wasn’t good.”

“No, it was class,” Louis murmurs. He’s doing that little flirty voice he does. “You were sexy up there.”

“Was I?” Liam says, sounding pleased.

“Yeah, yeah. Traumatized your son, though.”

“What? How?”

“Max didn’t get how you were on the phone and then on the TV. Patrick didn’t seem to give a shit… I dunno who’s the dumb one, based off that.”

Liam laughs. “Poor Maxy.”

“Having a two year old brain is hard.”

Zayn doesn’t want to hear about their fucking kids anymore. He straightens up, his mouth dry and head aching, and opens the door into the hallway.

Louis and Liam are standing a few feet away, outside Max and Patrick’s room. They both look over at him, seeming surprised.

Zayn checks his watch. 12:15 AM.

“I’m gonna head home,” he says.

“No, please stay,” Louis says. “Stay ‘til Harry gets back in town. I’m worried about you, mate, you shouldn’t be alone.”

“Harry’s alone.”

“He’s not, he’s with Nick.”

Zayn snorts. “You my Nick?”

Louis laughs. “No, I’m somethin’ much better,” he teases.

Liam runs a possessive hand up Louis’ back, settling it on his shoulder. “Zayn,” he says, “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you two are going through.”

It’s a nice and genuine thing to say, but Zayn’s teeth are on edge anyway. Must be nice to have the luxury to be _so very sorry_ as you stand outside your sons’ bedroom with your arm around my ex. But a little voice in the back of his head says firmly, _Liam loves you. He always has and he always will. He hurts for you. Let his love in._

The little voice sounds a bit like Louis.

“Thank you, mate,” Zayn says to him, making eye contact.

Liam looks back at him, his eyes soft, and gives him a little nod.

“Sleep here,” Louis pleads. “Don’t drive back out to Malibu when it’s so dark and you’re upset like this… ring Harry, then go to bed, and you can have breakfast with all of us tomorrow. Everything’ll seem less horrible in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Zayn allows. It always does.

So he stays. Louis gives him some guest towels (“Can I get a washcloth?” Zayn says, and Louis huffs at him like he’s just asked for a manicure) and brings him extra pillows.

“I’m gonna turn down the bed,” Louis says, “like they do at hotels, y’know?”

“You really don’t have to, mate,” Zayn says with a laugh, standing apprehensively behind Louis as he picks up the edges of the duvet and flaps it wildly, then takes a pillow and pummels it like a punching bag.

Louis makes a half-hearted attempt to fold the duvet over on itself, pronounces that impossible, then turns back to Zayn and shoots the fluffed pillow into his arms. “There. Brill.”

“Thanks,” Zayn says, tossing the pillow at the headboard. “I feel very bloody accommodated.”

Louis swats him as he goes by. “Ring your husband, will you?”

“I’m gonna do that now… hey,” Zayn says, and grabs him by the bicep. Louis looks up at him, his eyes wary. “We cool?”

Louis softens. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“I always forgive you, don’t I?” Louis says wryly.

Zayn lets go of him. “I guess.”

“We’re still family,” Louis says. “You know?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Night, Zayn.”

“Night.”

When Louis has gone down the hall, and Zayn’s heard him chirp a greeting to Liam, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts Harry, _landed?_

 **Read** 12:28 AM

Zayn sits on the edge of the bed, waiting. A few minutes later, Harry calls.

“Hey,” he says as soon as Zayn picks up. “Yeah, I’m just getting in a car at Heathrow.”

“Are you okay?” Zayn says, rubbing at his temples. “Like, medically?”

“What? The doctor cleared me, remember? It was a complete miscarriage.”

“I just mean your body went through all that stress, and you hopped straight on an eleven-hour flight. And you’re already worn down from all the IVF.”

“I’m fine,” Harry says in a clipped tone. “I’m not made of glass.”

“I didn’t fuckin’ say you were, Christ! Let me worry about you!”

Harry inhales shakily. “I just feel really fragile right now,” he says, his low voice hoarse. “If you push me, I’ll fall apart.”

“Then fall apart,” Zayn says. “Just fall apart for once. That’s what I’m here for.”

“It’s gonna be like last time,” Harry says, sounding tearful. “I’m gonna be just lying in bed all day crying…”

“It’s okay to cry, love.”

“I don’t want to hurt this much, I don’t. I just want a baby.” There’s a restrained sob over the line, the sound of which tightens Zayn’s throat. “I thought we had it this time… I really did.”

“Please come home,” Zayn begs, tearful himself now. “Harry, you’re scarin’ the shit out of me. Don’t leave me. I swear we can get through this, we just need to be together, right?”

“God, Zayn, I don’t want to leave you...”

“Then stop leaving! Don’t put a fuckin’ ocean between us!”

Harry’s quiet for a while.

“I feel like I rushed you,” he says. “I just wanted a baby, and I knew I didn’t have much time left for it. And I didn’t —“

“Stop. Stop it. I knew exactly what I was goin’ into, alright? Knew about your medical shit, knew what you wanted. I wanted to make you happy. I wanted what you wanted, so long as I got to be with you, finally.” Zayn’s voice breaks, and he takes a moment before he continues. “I feel like I finally got you, and now I’m losing you.”

“You aren’t,” Harry says softly. “You can’t. Zayn, I’m mad about you. This is just killing me.”

“Let’s stop,” Zayn says, clearing his throat. “I’ve got two kids by blood. I don’t need more. Let’s find an egg donor and use your sperm, whatever. Anythin’ but this shit that’s torturing you.”

Harry sniffles. “We can talk about it with the doctor when I get back.”

“When’s that gonna be?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll buy breakfast for the whole studio to apologize, and leave after that.”

“Okay,” Zayn says in relief.

“I just wanted to have a kid with you so bad.”

“Babe, any kid you and I raise together is my kid with you.”

“I really wanted to be pregnant,” Harry murmurs. He sounds sleepy, like this day has finally gotten on top of him.

“No one said you can’t still have that.”

Harry makes a soft, scoffing sound and says nothing.

“Listen, get some sleep. Text me when you’re in your room.”

“I will,” Harry promises. “Don’t stay up for me, though, it’s late over there.”

“I won’t,” Zayn lies. “Night, Styles.”

“Night, Malik.”

 

*

 

Louis thinks he and Liam are just going to go to sleep, but once he’s snuggled comfortably under the covers, Liam rolls over onto him, tears his boxers down and kisses him.

“Oh, hey,” Louis giggles. He loves when Liam gets forceful like this. He rarely does anymore since the boys came; maybe he’s too tired to, or maybe he feels guilty about rolling Louis over and playing rough with him now, especially since his back’s been in such bad shape.

Sometimes an alpha mood strikes him, though. The other week, when they’d had the house to themselves for once, he found Louis pouring himself a cup of coffee and pressed him up against the counter. Then he bent Louis over the island, yanking his joggers down. Louis kept bursting out with pleased laughter through the whole thing.

“Hi Daddio,” Liam murmurs back. He cups his hands to his face and strokes his thumbs over Louis’ cheeks, thrusting against him. Louis shivers and tips his head back so Liam can suck on his neck, which he happily does.

“Oh,” Louis groans. “You’re gonna give me a hickey…”

“Sorry,” Liam whispers in his ear.

“You aren’t any sort of fucking sorry…”

Liam grabs for the lube and squeezes some into his hand, then reaches down between them and starts working himself into Louis, who moans and grips hard at his hair.

“Is this about Zayn?” he breathes as Liam fucks him.

“Not everything’s about Zayn,” Liam murmurs.

Louis closes his eyes, just concentrating on the feel of Liam’s wet tongue and teeth on his neck, and the rhythm of his thick cock inside him. He’s screwing him really good tonight, nice and hard like he means it. “God,” he moans. “Liam… good boy, big boy…”

“This mine?” Liam breathes in his ear, his breath hot.

“It’s yours, it’s all yours, baby.”

Liam tightens his grip on his hair and reaches his other hand down to Louis’ arse, squeezing a handful of it and digging his fingernails into a cheek. Louis thinks guiltily of how Zayn grabbed his arse earlier, and a stab of shameful pleasure rips through him, stiffening his dick. He buries his face in the crook of Liam’s neck and drags in a long inhale of his husband’s smell.

It’s alright. Tomorrow at breakfast in the harsh light of day, Zayn will be cowed by the traces of Liam lingering all over him, by the lovebites on Louis’ throat; he’ll get a sharp reminder of who Louis belongs to.

Liam’s _still_ grabbing at him. He’s going to have little finger bruises tomorrow, but that’s alright. Louis runs his teeth along the edge of his ear, bites down, then whispers into it, “I love you so much.”

Liam shivers against him and sucks on him harder, sending tingles up his spine. Louis sighs happily and lets his eyes roll back in his head.

“I love you too, babe,” Liam whispers. “Sorry we fought…”

Louis starts laughing; the laugh tails off into a pleased moan when Liam hits a particularly good spot. “Was that a fight… thought that was business as usual…”

“Sorry about the business as usual, then,” Liam murmurs, then Louis laughs harder.

They don’t last very long; Liam comes in him after a few more minutes of pumping and then gives him a sloppy, lazy blowjob. His jaw must be tired after today. When he’s slid back up the bed and collapsed onto Louis, burying his face in the crook of his neck, Louis whispers, “Liam?”

“Yeah,” Liam murmurs.

“Zayn kissed me, earlier…”

Liam goes very still, but he calmly says in a hoarse post-orgasm voice, “He does that, sometimes.”

“He does, and normally it’s just harmless affection, y’know, but tonight it got a bit — I sort of had to slap him down.”

Liam reaches up and strokes Louis’ hair. “Okay.”

“I think he was just, I dunno, lonely and grabbing for comfort… not anything serious, I just didn’t want to not tell you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Good.”

“You know I trust you totally. I just — I sort of had a feeling something’d happened.”

“I had a feeling you had a feeling, with the questions you were asking.”

“Right.” Liam lets out a soft sigh. “Maybe I ought to have a chat with him.”

“No, no, you don’t have to, love, I swear. He got the message.”

“Alright.”

They lie there in silence for a moment. Liam shifts against him, petting his hair some more.

“We’re in the wet spot,” Louis says.

“Yeah, I was just gonna say, you wanna…”

They pick up their pillows and relocate a few feet to the left on the California king, bedding themselves back down in the darkness. Louis spoons up against Liam the way they usually sleep, and Liam wraps an arm around him.

“I’m more annoyed on Harry’s behalf than I am on mine,” Liam murmurs.

“I know. That’s what I said to him, too, like, really mate?”

“I hope he’s alright. Harry, I mean.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Shouldn’t he be in bed or something?” Liam says.

“In bed?” Louis laughs. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean if he’s — you know what I mean.”

“You think if you’re miscarrying you have to take to bed?”

“I dunno,” Liam says defensively. “What did you do?”

“Ah, me doctor just gave me a pad like birds wear when they’ve got the painters in. Same thing as after I had the boys, you remember. And I took a few painkillers.”

“And you just walked around?”

“It’s not like I was gunshot. I had things to do.”

“No, I know, just…” Liam presses a kiss behind his ear. “Very tough of you lot, that’s all. I had no idea.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have reason to,” Louis says. “No one talks about these things, anyway, I guess.”

“No, they don’t.”

“I hope Harry’s got someone to talk to.”

“His boyfriend, hopefully.”

“You know what I mean. Someone who understands.”

“Right,” Liam says. “Me too.”

Louis reaches up in the darkness, stroking Liam’s forearm and then trailing his fingers down over his, rubbing his thumb against his wedding band.

“Happy first anniversary,” he murmurs.

“Oi, one more month,” Liam says. “Getting ahead of yourself.”

“So what’d you get me?”

“Ah, a blanket with one of my dick pics on,” he jokes.

“Oh, the embroidered type, like? I got you the same thing,” Louis jokes back.

“And a dick pic mug as well.”

“Me too!”

“Dick pic hoodie.”

“This is just gettin’ scary now.”

 

CALABASAS, MAY 16, 2036

Louis and Liam’s watches go off simultaneously, and they glance down at their wrists in tandem. _NEST ALERT: Harry Styles spotted in entryway._

“Oi,” Louis shouts out the doorway of their home studio, “we’re upstairs, mate!”

Niall turns from where he’s rooting around in the mini fridge that’s tucked in underneath the mixing console. “They here?”

“It just said Harry,” Liam says, taking a second glance at his watch.

“Fuckin’ell,” Louis says. “I can’t believe this tour is about to start and I don’t even know if Zayn’s actually on board.”

“He is,” Liam says bracingly. He’s sat backwards astride a chair they brought up from the dining room, chin resting on his folded arms like he’s seventeen again. “Come on, he signed all the contracts.”

Niall swivels over to the keyboard and plays a depressing chord. “‘Cos Zayn has such a rock-solid history of honorin’ contracts,” he intones.

“I still can’t believe we even got him,” Liam says.

“Apparently all we ever had to do was offer him thirty percent of gross merch sales,” Louis says. “Don’t I feel silly now, for having a baby with him instead.”

Niall snorts.

They hear Harry coming down the hall and shut up. He appears in the open doorway, crane-like as usual, and says, “Sorry, it’s just me… Lena’s sick, Zayn stayed home with her.”

Niall plays a jaunty little ragtimey tune. “We weren’t wondering,” he lies cheerfully.

“Although this is the fifth meeting he’s missed,” Louis says.

“Sixth,” Niall says, “but who’s counting?”

Liam clears his throat. “Harry, you want a beer, seltzer, anything?”

“I’m fine,” Harry says evenly, and he comes over and sits a few feet down from Louis on the couch. “No need for the passive aggression, thanks. We’re both on board for the tour, we’ve made all the arrangements for the girls.”

“They’ll be in England?” Louis says.

Harry nods. “Back and forth between me and Zayn’s families.”

“That’ll be nice,” Louis says. “I think Mims and Amir have gotten more time with their cousins on that side than the girls have.”

Harry nods. He doesn’t tend to let his daughters out of his or Zayn’s sight, while Louis, overburdened by ferrying five kids around during the week, had been happy to ship two of them off to England for a few weeks over hols whenever he had the chance. “Are they still away at school?” he says.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Finishing up exams.”

“What about Sunday?” Harry says to Liam.

“She’s still traveling with her team, doing the California eventing circuit,” Liam says. “Got shows all up and down the coast all year, trying to qualify for this big competition. She’s up in Fresno right now.”

“Oh, good, that sounds exciting.”

Liam nods and smiles back, his mouth a bit tight. He would have much preferred that Sunday take a break from horses and go to uni, but their year’s worth of rowing on the subject didn’t come out in his favor. Sunday made decent marks her junior and senior year, and didn’t do too badly on the SAT, but she never even bothered applying anywhere. “It’s just not me,” she said, and Louis hardly felt they could blame her for that. It’s not like either of them has a university education, even though they both wish they did.

Louis thinks it’ll all be worth it if she does actually make it to the Olympics someday, though Liam always says, “And it’ll crush her if she doesn’t, and she’ll have no backup plan!” in that utterly maudlin way he gets about him sometimes. “She’ll be like that movie we watched with the skier who went to jail for the poker games!”

“The twins’ll be doing the same as your girls,” Louis says. “Be in England, back and forth.”

“My mum’s so excited about having them,” Liam says, smiling. “She’s got a mission to give them accents by the time they’re done visiting.”

“See, I tried that with me older kids,” Louis says. “Just didn’t take. They talk like their little schoolmates, always have.”

“No, that’s not true,” Harry says. “When they talk to you or Zayn, or each other, they sound a bit English.”

“Not English enough,” Louis mutters.

“That’s interesting, that they switch around us,” Liam says. “I hadn’t put that together, but you’re right.”

Harry smiles wryly and taps his temple. “So,” he says, “what are we up to today, then?”

Louis clears his throat. “Just finalizing the setlist and our riders. We’re really basically done… did Zayn get the chance to approve the finalized merch, by the way?”

Harry rubs his palms against his jeans. “Not formally, but he said he was fine with it.”

“All of it?”

“Yeah.”

Niall exchanges a look with Liam. “I think he still needs to sign off officially,” he says, cracking open a beer. “Since it uses his logo.”

“I’ll remind him,” Harry says, his tone growing thin.

Niall puts his hands up. “Alright.”

“I don’t want to start off things like this,” Harry says.

“We aren’t starting off like anything,” Louis assures him. “We just want to be sure he’s on board. It’s a couple months of touring, you know? We haven’t announced he’s joinin’ us, we haven’t started selling the merch. If he’s gonna back out, now’s the time.”

Harry shoots him a look. “He’s not backing out of anything.”

“Okay!”

Harry swings his piercing gaze around to the other two. “And I’d love for you all to stop acting like I’m his mum.”

“Mate, we weren’t saying that,” Liam says. “It’s just you live with the guy, and we’ve been a bit in the dark lately.”

“I know. He’s on board for the tour, alright? You know how bored he gets by logistics, which… whatever. Yeah, it’s not fair, but at the end of the day we can handle that shit ourselves… ‘s’worth it to have the publicity of a full reunion, you know?”

Louis folds his arms over his chest and settles back against the couch. He doesn’t talk to Zayn as often now that both their kids are off at uni — no reason to, when they’re not trading off parenting duties — and lately even less so. He’s afraid that Zayn is managing to quietly slip into a depression.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Harry to take care of him, moreso that he knows touring while depressed is terrible for Zayn’s mental health. Last time it nearly killed him. Harry just doesn’t grasp this fully, because Louis is the one who nursed Zayn through the worst of things. Harry’s never been with a flagrantly drunk Zayn.

“I just want to be sure this is still something he wants to do,” Louis says. “We recorded an entire album with him on. We’re keeping this a huge secret, holding off droppin’ a single ‘til our first date so we can capitalize on the surprise aspect. We’re gonna look like such fuckin’ numpties on every level if he pulls out. It’ll be unsalvageable.”

Niall and Liam are both looking at Harry as Louis talks, giving him the sort of understanding, sympathetic faces that Louis would find absolutely infuriating if he were the one they were aiming them at.

Of course, Harry is a different person.

“I know,” he replies, reaching over to squeeze Louis on the bicep. “He won’t. I promise. When I get home I’ll bother him about signing off on the merch.”

Niall claps his hands together. “Alright. Sounds good. So, I’m thinking Twizzlers for my rider, we got any other musts?”

“Twix,” Liam says. “Fancy a Twix, lately.”

“White Maltesers,” Louis says.

“Tommo, they’re not gonna bring ‘em back,” Liam says, grinning.

“I’ll make it happen if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Mineral water,” Harry says.

“Ooh, mineral water, yeah,” Liam says. “Some melon? Pears.”

“Harry and David,” Harry says.

“Like I’d eat any other sort of pear,” Liam says.

Harry smiles at him. “Peasant pears.”

“God, I hate you both,” Louis says.

Harry laughs. “Alright, pink Starbursts.”

“So the worst flavor?” Louis teases.

“You’ve lost the plot,” Harry tells him. “Oh, and wasabi peas.”

Niall adds this to the list, murmuring it aloud as he does. “Wasabi… peas…”

 

*

 

A few hours after the meeting has wrapped up and they’ve shuffled Harry and Niall off, Liam finds Louis sitting on the floor of their massive closet, going through a memory box.

He looks up when he hears Liam come in, and holds up a tiny baby shoe that belonged to one of the twins.

“Aw,” Liam says.

“I miss ‘em already,” Louis says sadly.

“They’re just at basketball practice.”

“You know what I mean. Two months without them? When me nest is already half-empty? I’m gonna go bonkers.”

“You won’t,” Liam says firmly, dropping down on the floor next to him and starting to rummage through the box himself. “They’ll have a wonderful time, it’ll be good for them, and good for us too.”

Louis holds up a copy of their tiny hospital footprints, and Liam softens.

“So little,” he says. “You feeling broody, Tommo?”

“Absolutely not,” Louis says immediately, then hesitates. “Well, maybe a tiny bit…”

“Aha, I knew it.”

Louis is still gazing at the footprints. “It’d be funny as shit if they were identical,” he says. “I sometimes wish they were, y’know? We could have played loads of jokes on people.”

Liam laughs. “They look enough alike, anyway. My dad still mixes them up, somehow… he’s gonna have to get that sorted before they come to stay.”

“It’s so easy! Max has the woogly eye.”

“The _woogly_ eye?”

“What’s it called?”

“Partial hetero, um.”

“Partial hetero?” Louis teases.

“Heterodome? Chrome? Heterochromia, that’s it.”

“It’s funny that no one’s ever teased him for that,” Louis says. “I was afraid they would, you know how kids are.”

“He’s too sweet to tease,” Liam says. “Old easygoing Max.”

“He is, he’s a love. Is Sunday gonna join the boys visiting the Paynos, you think?”

Liam sighs. “I dunno. You know how she’s been lately. So single-minded and busy.”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask,” Louis says.

“You’re right.”

Louis’ watch rings, and he shakes it to answer. “Hey Mims.”

“Hiii,” Mia’s voice rings out.

“Liam’s here too, you’re on speaker,” Louis says.

“Hi,” Liam says.

“Oh, too bad, I was calling you to talk about how annoying Liam is,” Mia says, and they both laugh. “No, I just wanted to say that me and Jake are going to take a little trip up the PCH after finals, so I’ll be home a few days later than I said.”

“Up the PCH? Why?”

“He wants me to model for him a bit. Like photos of me along the coast. He’s working on this series about women and nature.”

Jake is Mia’s art school photographer boyfriend, who Louis hates the piss out of. He’s always banging on about how he only shoots in _film_ because he thinks digital photos _lack the integrity of the craft_. “Love, it might not be a good time for a road trip,” he says. “We’re on high alert for wildfires this summer, I don’t want you two getting stranded.”

“Ughhhh…”

“I know, it’s annoying, but can it wait ‘til another time?”

“I guess,” Mia says. “I’ll talk to him.”

“That’s my girl,” Louis says fondly. “How’s the knee?”

“Still hurts,” she says. “Not bad today, but last week was awful. I had to skip all my classes the day after practice.”

Liam and Louis exchange a glance.

“You’re not taking the Vicodin again, are you?” Louis says.

“ _No_ , Dad! Just Tylenol, even though it doesn’t really work…”

“When you come home we can talk to my new doctor about it,” Louis says. “She’s done wonders for me back problems with the injections, I almost never ‘ave to go to the drugs anymore. Maybe she can help you too.”

“I hope so,” Mia says in a small voice.

“Have you heard from Amir?”

“Yeah, I texted with him this morning.”

“Is he still coming home soon as finals end?”

“Yeah, although I dunno why you guys even care,” Mia says, sounding amused. “We’ll only be together for like two weeks before you run off to Europe.”

“All the more reason we want to see you!”

“We wanna take a little yacht trip once the boys are off school,” Liam says. “That’s better than driving up the coast, right? Seeing it from the Prince William?”

Louis laughs. Liam had wanted to name the boat _The Tommo II,_ and he had point-blank refused this, suggesting plenty of dirty jokes as alternatives. Liam insisted on naming it after him in a roundabout way anyway, claiming it had nothing to do with Louis and he was just honoring the soon-to-be sovereign of their motherland. He likes to tweak Louis about it whenever he can, though.

“Can I bring Jake?” Mia says.

Louis’ expression curdles.

“Da-aaad,” Mia says, like she can sense his trepidation over the phone.

“He sleeps on a cot on the floor in your room,” Louis says sharply. “Not the bed. If I find ‘im in your bed, I’m gonna kick his arse up and down the deck.”

“Fine, Jesus. Don’t be a prude.”

“A _prude_? Me?” Louis says, while Liam cracks up. “I’m just being your parent. Liam, quit laughing! Shut up!”

“Tommo, a prude,” Liam exclaims, pretending to wipe his eyes. “That’s hysterical.”

Louis throws one of the baby shoes at him; he catches it and throws it back. “Oi! Don’t throw precious memories at me!”

“We’ll let you go, Mims,” Louis says into the phone. “I have to beat your stepfather up.”

“Go for his legs, Liam,” Mia says.

Louis laughs. “Hey!”

“Bye-e, guys,” she sings, and they say bye back, chuckling.

Liam settles on the floor next to Louis, who picks up a Polaroid and shows it to him. It’s him pregnant with the twins at Christmas — one of Liam’s cousins was pregnant at the same time he was, and they’re comparing tummies by the tree, wearing ugly jumpers and laughing.

Liam smiles. “I haven’t seen that one in forever,” he says. “Y’know, there’s barely any photos of you pregnant with them… nearly all of ‘em are from the holidays.”

Louis shrugs.

“You don’t regret having more photos from then? You never even took any selfies.”

“Oh my God,” Louis says, laughing. “And yeah, I did! Not a million, but a few… just if I looked at meself in the mirror and was like, oh, look a bit more pregnant today, interesting, let’s snap a pic.”

“Well I’ve never seen any of ‘em!”

“Why would you need to see them? Saw me every single day, was there for the whole thing, now I have to make you a fuckin’ scrapbook, too? Jesus, Payno.”

“I just like looking back on stuff like that, is all,” Liam says. “And I know you do too.”

“Yeah, but you know I don’t love most photos of me to begin with, much less pregnant.”

“That makes me sad.”

Louis snorts.

“No, I mean it,” Liam insists. He takes the photo from him. “You were lovely, pregnancy’s beautiful. You had a glow.”

Louis is back rummaging through the box, smiling and shaking his head. “You’re funny.”

“Will you let me pay you a bloody compliment, ever?”

”You’re perfectly allowed to pay me a compliment, sweets.”

“But I want you to, y’know, agree.”

“Okay, I agree.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I am the sexiest man in the world,” Louis intones sarcastically, then pulls out another Polaroid. “Christ, I haven’t put dates on nearly any of these, thanks nappy brain. Ha, this one of Amir putting his underpants on the dog…” His expression grows melancholy. “I miss having a dog.”

“Me too,” Liam says. “Want to finally get another? We keep talking about doing that and not doing it.”

“Yeah, absolutely. After the tour, let’s get on that.”

“I’d like a Doberman,” Liam says. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

Louis chuckles.

“What?”

He glances up at Liam. “That song of Zayn’s I was featured on way back when, we had a bunch of Dobermans in the video, you remember? That solo VMA I’ve got, that’s what it’s from.”

Liam makes a face. “Right, never mind on the Doberman.”

Louis continues to chuckle. He holds up another Polaroid. “Look at this one from my thirty-first. You look like Ricky Martin in this.”

“He-ey!”

“In a good way! It’s the hair. How about a giant schnauzer?”

“For what?” Liam says, confused.

“For a dog, dummy.” Louis flicks up the hologram display on his watch and beckons him to come over.

Liam joins him on the floor, looking at the pictures of dogs he has up. “Those are _huge_ ,” he says.

“I like a big dog,” Louis says. “What d’you want some little thing for? Yapping around the house like a cat?”

“Cats yap?”

“You know what I mean.”

“These dogs are the size of horses,” Liam points out.

“What’s your point, lad?”

“Alright, alright,” Liam says, laughing. “Show me what else you were thinking.”

 

MANHATTAN, MAY 25, 2036

Amir stares up at the skyscrapers outside his window as they go by, watching them slowly thin out and then recede entirely as they pass through Midtown and into Queens.

“I can’t believe you’re flying out of _LaGuardia_ ,” Sam says.

Amir tosses a lazy glance in his direction. “Less paparazzi,” he says. “And you didn’t have to come along.”

“I wanted to say bye. Plus, I’ve been meaning to come out and visit Ian.”

“Ian,” Amir repeats in annoyance.

Ian is Sam’s ex, who he talks about with suspicious frequency. Sam and Amir have a semi-open relationship, but he certainly doesn’t want Sam fucking _Ian_ while he’s gone over the summer.

“Hey, it’s not like that,” Sam says, reaching over to put a hand on Amir’s thigh.

Amir picks his hand up with two disgruntled fingers and removes it from his Diesel jeans. Sam laughs; he thinks it’s cute when Amir is bitchy and prickly.

“I swear it isn’t,” he adds. “It’s just he’s working at the QSO now, and they’re looking for a second trombonist. I wanted to ask if he could put in a good word for me. Even getting an audition would be awesome.”

“You have another year of school,” Amir points out.

“I could defer. Getting a chair in a symphony is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

Amir is finding this conversation very boring. Sam is wearing on him lately, in general. They’d met at tryouts for the Juilliard Chamber Orchestra two weeks before he broke up with Evan and halfway into his first semester, and Sam had charmed him right away with his height, curly hair and dark eyes.

But Sam’s flighty and self-obsessed, and he’s grown more and more enamored of Amir’s fame the longer they date, in a way that makes Amir uneasy. Plus, they have very different goals as musicians, and they keep clashing over that. Sam has little regard for Amir’s ambitions to be a jazz soloist or part of a commercially successful combo — he thinks a true musician’s calling is to toil anonymously away in an orchestra. He thinks Harry Connick Jr. is, quote, “a corny hack.” Amir loves Harry Connick Jr.

“It’s just the QSO,” Amir says, using Sam’s snobbery against him.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You could do a _lot_ worse than the QSO, okay? Ruth Laredo played for them.”

Amir shrugs and looks back out the window, watching the tired old buildings zoom by.

“You are now nineteen minutes from LaGuardia Airport,” the smooth female voice of the self-driving Uber announces. “Accident ahead. You are still on the fastest route.”

“I’ll never see you if you move to Queens,” Amir says.

“We can make it work,” Sam says bracingly.

That’s exactly what Evan had said, two months before they broke up.

 

THE PACIFIC OCEAN, JUNE 1, 2036

The yacht trip ends up being a ragtag group of twosomes: Liam and Louis, the twins, Mia and her boyfriend, and Amir and Evan.

At first Amir didn’t want to bring anyone — he was just going to use the week at sea to work on his tan and read. But while his plane was still in the air, he saw Sam had posted a video of him and Ian playing keyboard together, singing a duet and laughing at inside jokes. He got so pissed off that he immediately rang up his ex-boyfriend-cum-best friend and asked him to come along.

Amir knows that was petty and manipulative of him, but he’s been missing Evan like crazy anyway, and besides, there’s nothing inherently romantic about a boat trip with your siblings, dad and step-dad. If anything, maybe it’s a good way for them to get past the awkwardness of their breakup by being in a neutral situation where they can goof off together without feeling any pressure to be a certain way with each other.

At least that’s what Amir told himself. But it was all over for him when he saw Evan again for the first time, that morning they set sail.

He didn’t come over to the house first, he met them all down at the dock. Amir was leaning on the back of the Range Rover, lounging while his family was being their usual chaotic selves all around him, and he watched as Evan pulled up in his convertible — newly tanned and muscular, his light hair glowing in the low morning sun. It made Amir’s breath catch in his throat.

And then Evan got out and sauntered over to him, smiling sheepishly, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey you,” Amir said softly. He barely had it in him to flirt, that’s how instantly done for he was.

“Been a while,” Evan said.

“Yeah.”

They stared at each other, the tension thick enough to cut.

Patrick and Max ran by, then, and Patrick yelled, “Last one on the boat eats turds!”

This made Evan laugh. Neither of them moved, so he said, “I guess we eat turds.”

Amir laughed too. “I guess we do.”

That first evening on the water, they throw anchor down before the sun sets so Liam and Louis can fish off the back of the boat (more accurately so Liam can fish while Louis looks at Twitter). Evan borrows one of Liam’s poles and casts a line out, too; when Amir finds him there, he plants hands on his hips and says, “Really?”

Evan squints up at him and shrugs.

“Since when do you fish?”

“I just learned. I like it, it’s relaxing.”

“Bored,” Amir announces. “Boring. I’m bored.”

Louis laughs. “Leave the boys be. They’re hard at work.”

Liam, who’s leaned back in a chaise with his hat pulled down over his eyes, nods. “Very hard work.”

Amir had wanted to hang out with Evan in their room, smoking weed and watching the ocean go by through the porthole while they caught up on each other’s lives, talking shit about their friends from high school. But he supposes there’s time for that later tonight.

“Fine, I’m gonna go bother Mia,” he says.

“Brilliant,” Louis calls after him. “Make sure she’s not up to any funny business with that photographer.”

Evan laughs at this.

Mia is not up to any funny business with the photographer. She’s just cuddling with him on the couch in the parlor below deck, watching TV while the twins flit around the room wrestling each other and bouncing off of the wood-paneled walls.

“Hey,” Amir says, plopping down on the thick carpet and pulling his Mac off the coffee table into his lap.

“Hey,” Mia says.

Jake waves at him, then returns to stroking his sister’s arm. Amir doesn’t care for Jake much more than their dad does — he thinks so highly of himself, and he’s _barely_ talented. Amir can’t imagine why Mia is still hanging around with this guy, except that she still doesn’t really know what to do with her life, and he keeps flattering her by insisting that she should be a petite model.

Amir understands boy brains, and he suspects this line of flattery is Jake trying to con his way into taking pictures of her in her underwear. Luckily she’s too smart to fall for that, because he thinks that he’d be obligated to scratch Jake’s eyes out if he ever tried.

Amir glances down at his computer, back at his half-completed application for a fall work study position as a Jazz Studies library assistant. “Mims,” he says.

“Yeah,” Mia says, tearing her gaze from the TV.

The twins, having tired themselves out, come over and flop down on the couch next to Jake. Patrick eyes him with that cutting stare of his, and Jake anxiously avoids his gaze. Amir grins at this.

“What do you put for race, when you’re applying to stuff?” he says to his sister.

Mia squints at him. “White? I forget. Why?”

“I dunno what to put.”

“What’d you put on your college applications?”

“You could check more than one box on those, remember? But right now they’re making me pick one.”

“It’s just what makes the most sense, it doesn’t have to be totally accurate. We’re mostly white.”

“You’re whiter than me,” Amir points out.

“Phenotypically, not genotypically,” Mia says.

“Wo-ow,” Amir says. “Have you actually been paying attention to a science class for the first time in your life?”

“Fuck off. No, I learned that from 23andme. Then put Asian if you’re so conflicted.”

“That’s not right either, though.”

“Other,” she suggests.

“They don’t have ‘other’.”

“Seriously? What kind of fucked up application are you filling out?”

Amir laughs. “It’s Juilliard's!”

“Uh, bad look for Juilliard.” Mia turns to Jake. “Did you think I was white when you met me?”

“Yeah,” Jake says. “I mean, not totally. I thought you were maybe like, Lebanese or something. Armenian?”

She grimaces. “Like the _Kardashians?_ ”

“Ha,” Patrick says, beaming. “You do kinda look like a Kardashian.”

“Please, I do not.”

“Mia’s a Kardashian,” Max and Patrick begin chanting in unison, “Mia’s a Kardashian —“

“Hush,” she says, laughing, and they fall quiet.

“Italian,” Jake adds.

“You think I look Italian?”

“Dark Italian… Ariana Grande. Like right now, ‘cos you’re tan.”

“She spray tans, it doesn’t count.”

“What about me?” Amir says to Jake.

“If I didn’t know, I’d think you were Latino, maybe,” Jake says.

Amir looks back down at the screen. “They should let you check more than one, the fuck.”

“We should stop saying fuck in front of the boys,” Mia says.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Patrick repeats cheerfully.

“Fuck,” Max adds, and snuggles into Jake’s shoulder. Jake smiles at him, looking amused. The kid has zero boundaries and no self-consciousness — he’d cuddle with a convicted murderer if he wanted attention. “Amir, how come you don’t know if you’re white or not?”

“‘Cos it’s complicated,” Amir says.

“He’s overthinking it,” Mia says.

“You don’t get it, it’s easier for you.”

“It’s not,” Mia exclaims. “It makes me sad, I feel like I have less of a connection.”

“Yeah, but that’s better for you, right?” Jake says to her. He notices the withering look on her face, and hurries to say, “Like, if we’re talking about hiring discrimination.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

“What did I say that’s so wrong?” he exclaims.

“You just said it’s better to pass as white!”

“I was playing devil’s advocate. I just mean, if you _had_ to pick...”

“Jake, oh my God.”

Patrick looks profoundly bored of this panel on racial identity. “Amir, show us your new tattoo again,” he says.

Max sits up with interest as well, and Jake looks grateful for the distraction. Amir sets his MacBook on the coffee table, pausing for a second to secure it as the yacht sways suddenly underneath them. He turns and lifts up his shirt, exposing the angel wings he got inked between his shoulder blades a couple weeks ago.

“It looks so cool,” Patrick says appreciatively, while Mia makes a resigned noise.

“I can’t believe you got something so big for your first one,” she says.

Amir turns back around and gives her the finger.

“ _And_ you had to pierce your septum?” Mia adds.

“You have like seven piercings in each ear!”

“In my _ears_ , not my face —“

“I like the tattoo,” Jake offers.

“I really want one,” Patrick says.

“Yeah, me and him are gonna get matching ones,” Max says, swiping at his nose. “We both want a dragon.”

“Do it,” Amir urges. “Get massive back pieces.”

“Stop encouraging them to repeat your mistakes,” Mia says.

“Boys, don’t listen to Mia, she’s adopted.”

It’s Mia’s turn to give him the middle finger; he grins and sticks his tongue out at her.

 

*

 

Evan catches two fish to Liam’s three, and Liam grills them all with herb butter on the lower deck while they sit around on the couches in the lounge pit below, chatting.

“Liam,” Amir calls to his stepfather, “didn’t you have to get a license to fish in the ocean? Evan doesn’t have one.”

“You need a license?” Evan exclaims, laughing. “I only have two months left on my probation, guys.”

Liam does one of his unconcerned, middle-aged rich man chuckles. “Don’t worry,” he calls back, “if the rozzers pull up on us, I’ll say I caught all these myself.”

“Marvelously talented fisherman, my husband,” Louis says, and Liam blows him a kiss.

Jake leans toward Mia. “Rozzers?”

“Police,” she clarifies.

“I’m hungry,” Max complains.

Louis glances at his watch. “It’s only six, love,” he says, and passes the crudité plate over to his son. “Have a cracker.”

Max takes a piece of salami, but Patrick wrinkles his nose at everything on offer. “Can I have a burger, Dad?” he shouts to Liam.

“Nooo!”

“Why not?”

“‘Cos Evan and I didn’t catch burgers,” Liam replies, flipping one of the fish.

Patrick wrinkles his nose. “But you —“

“— _have_ burgers —“ Max finishes.

“— yeah, we saw them in the fridge!”

“Those are for tomorrow night,” Liam says. “Trying to vary the menu as we go, please respect my creative choices.”

Max stands up on the couch to peer over at him; Louis grabs him by his shirt and yanks him back down. “We stand on the floor when we’re on a boat, love.”

“There’s something else on the grill,” Max announces.

“Tofu steak,” Liam says. “For our vegan friend Jake.”

Amir makes a face and pokes his tongue out at Mia, who shrugs, like, _what are you gonna do._

Liam picks a piece of fish up with the tongs and deposits it onto a little appetizer plate, then descends the stairs into the lounge area and hands it to Louis along with a dessert fork.“Taste.”

Louis obliges, then does a bit of panto like he’s choking to death.

“Dad,” Max complains. He hates when Louis teases like that.

Louis swallows, laughing. “No, it’s very good. Just, um, very lemony?”

“It’s the salt air,” Liam says.

“Salt air makes things more lemony?”

“No, it makes your taste buds more sensitive.”

“That’s true,” Jake says. “It’s the sea level altitude. It’s like, the opposite of what happens on planes.”

Amir knows this is wrong and opens his mouth to say so, but Louis shoots him a conspiratorial smile _,_ so he leaves it be.

“So Louis,” Evan says. “Where does you guys’s tour end?”

This sounds like he’s picking up a thread of a conversation from earlier, which Amir finds a little jarring. Was Evan just chatting with his dad while he fished? Did they talk about the breakup at all?

Louis takes a sip of his beer, and Liam leaves them to return to grillmaster duties. “Wales,” he says. “We open at Wembley, circle around Europe a bit, then head back to Wales for the end of it.”

“So no dates in America?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Louis says. “We had some, ahh… interesting logistics this time.”

Liam shoots a look at him and clacks the tongs together.

“That wasn’t giving it away!” Louis exclaims at him.

“Careful,” Liam says. “These children are practically wired into the Internet. You know how it is.”

“People already suspect, anyway.”

“Suspect what?” Jake says.

Mia nudges him. “That’s classified information,” she says in a nasally, hyper-American accent.

Amir snorts. He and Mia both think it’s sort of stupid that the band is keeping Zayn’s return so secret, but then again, they aren’t their adoring public. It’s always been mind-boggling to the kids how the world falls at their dads’ feet, these guys they grew up watching walk around before bedtime with Rogaine and snore strips on.

“Za —“ Max starts, and Mia pulls him into a headlock and applies a noogie to his head. “Oww, Mia, owww!”

“Zebras,” Liam says, grinning at Louis.

Louis squints, then laughs. “God, that’s _ancient_ ,” he says. “I should text him that just to piss him off.”

“Remember what you wrote on the card for their wedding gift?” Liam says, flipping a fish.

“Right, something about paperwork…”

“They didn’t find that funny at all, did they?”

“Not even a little,” Louis says. “I personally found it hilarious.”

Patrick looks very put out that he’s been denied burgers and now no one is paying attention to him. “Can I try tofu?” he says.

“No,” Mia tells him. “You’ll hate it, you’ll just spit it out.”

“He can _try_ it,” Jake says magnanimously.

“I promise he won’t like it,” Mia says. “Try him again in a few years, when he’s having his pretentious phase.”

Jake gets a displeased look. “His _pretentious_ phase?”

Mia’s face drops like she’s abruptly realized that she goofed. She opens her mouth again, then closes it; Louis rescues her by leaning over to the cooler, grabbing a beer, and shoving it into Jake’s hand.

Jake glances down at it. “It’s cool I’m not twenty-one?”

“Ah, we don’t care,” Louis says. “We’re in international waters, so we go by English law. Anyone else want one?”

Amir, Evan and Mia all extend their hands, and Louis passes out Coronas.

Patrick and Max reach their hands out too.

“I said we’re in international waters, not _Italy_.”

“No beer for Max Fox,” Amir teases. “Maximum Fox.”

“Stop,” Max complains.

“What’s wrong, Max Fox?”

“Why’d you name me that?” Max demands of Louis.

Louis laughs. “We didn’t!”

“You’re _Maximilian_ Fox,” Liam calls from the grill. “Very regal.”

“But you call me Max, so I’m Max Fox!”

“Sorry, love,” Louis says. “That truly never occurred to me. I was whacked on pain meds when I named you two. I think Max Fox is cute, though.”

“Fox and Routledge were my picks,” Liam says.

“And you let him get away with that?” Amir says to Louis.

“Those were his picks for _first_ names,” Louis says. “The situation could have been much worse.”

“Max, you’re going into sixth grade, you can’t take things like _Maximum Fox_ personally,” Amir says.

“I just don’t like when _you_ say it.”

“I’m your older brother, it’s my job to teach you to toughen up,” Amir says, then goads them: “Patty Cake and Max Fox.”

Mia snorts, and Patrick gives him an _I’ll kill you_ look.

 

*

 

“That’s cool that your dads can just play Wembley like it’s nothing,” Evan calls.

Amir pokes his head out of his room’s little en suite bathroom where he was brushing the fish taste out of his mouth. Evan is lounging on the large bed, looking at his phone. The sconces on the walls are lit up, and there’s dim moonlight filtering through the porthole as they zoom along. Liam and Louis went to bed already, but the boat captain Liam hired is on the night shift, guiding them up the coast.

“I guess,” Amir says. “I don’t really think about it.”

Evan looks up at him. “You’ve played a couple shows at clubs now, right?”

Amir comes over and flops across the bed. Evan hands him the joint, and he takes a hard drag off it. “Yeah. But it’s not like what they do.”

“It’s shows, though.”

“But not thousands of girls screaming. Nobody screams and throws bras at jazz. And when I’m subbing in the orchestra, nobody notices me unless I fuck up.”

“It’s still cool.”

“No, I know. I like it better my way… they have too much pressure on them.”

“Makes sense,” Evan says. “I don’t think I’d want that either… everybody recognizing me everywhere I go, thinking they know me.”

Amir gazes up at Evan, who self-consciously smooths his floppy blonde hair back.

“I wish you could have come out to see my band,” Amir says.

“I came to see you do jazz band in high school.”

“That wasn’t the same. Now I’m in like, an actual band.”

“Yeah, I know.” Evan takes the joint back. “I wish I could’ve come out, too.”

Last year, Evan had decided to take a gap year to finish his community service, decompress and figure out what he actually wanted in life. When Amir went off to college, Evan decided to spend six months in a wilderness therapy program in the Sierra Nevada, where he learned to live off the land and worked on wildlife conservation with park rangers. He got the idea in his head from one of his influencer friends who’d done it after he got a DUI, to “work on himself,”  and said it had “revitalized his whole mindset.” Amir wasn’t convinced, but Evan’s always liked being outdoors, and he needed to do something besides fuck around for a year, so, fine. Go be Walden.

But the extreme physical labor and lack of comfort was tough on Evan, which was the start of things getting fucked up between them; Amir needs a lot of attention, and that was impossible for him to get from the opposite coast and from someone who was impossible to reach during the day and then exhausted every night. And Evan couldn’t even leave the property, much less fly to Manhattan to see his boyfriend.

Them being so apart from each other wrecked everything. Amir started to forget what it was like to be with him, to feel safe and understood in his presence. He made the choice to chalk up his near-constant irritability to stress from his insane Juilliard workload, and ignored the pangs he got in his gut every time something reminded him of Evan. He pretended that his feelings of total loneliness and abandonment were solely because he was so far from his family.

He started to go out clubbing with his roommates almost nightly and kept ending up leaving embarrassing drunk voicemails for him, like, “I’m so glad you’re _finding_ yourself chopping wood all day, and your own boyfriend can’t even talk to you. Congratulations.” Evan would always call him the next morning with apologies, but of course by then Amir was always just hungover and completely ashamed of his earlier outburst, wanting to put it behind him. Finally he dumped Evan in a text, saying _i can’t do this anymore im sorry. im so tired of waiting around for you. let’s just go back to being friends… please_

Evan tried desperately to get him back, but Amir doesn’t like reversing decisions. Communication between them dwindled until their only interaction was liking each other’s posts or viewing each other’s stories. Amir started going to bed with any random cute guy he met on a night out, and then before long, Sam worked up the courage to ask him out. He said sure, mostly out of a desire to be doted on and cuddled. The random guys never wanted to cuddle.

Seeing Evan again has changed things, though. Amir had forgotten how much he liked him before his pride got wounded, and how much he missed his best friend. There’s something about him that feels like home. And they’d had a really good summer together, before he had to leave for Juilliard. They’d driven around in Evan’s convertible with the top down, not even talking most of the time, blasting music and making out at every red light. They’d help their YouTube star friend Matt film prank videos in Beverly Hills, nearly pissing themselves laughing, then skateboard down to the beach and watch the sun go down over the water, talking about nothing.

They had fun before that, too. Evan had an easy, skippable class at the end of the day his senior year, and Amir would drive over to Thorngate to pick him up whenever he snuck out. Once they passed a security guard on a golf cart, and he yelled out, “Hey!” but Amir yelled back, “It’s okay, I’m his dad!” and that confused the guy so much that it gave Amir time to _skrrt_ right out of the parking lot while he and Evan wheezed with laughter.

Amir reaches up and strokes Evan’s bicep. He has real muscles now, like a man.

“Hey,” Evan says softly.

“Hi,” Amir murmurs.

The little voice of his conscience says to him that he’s being selfish and unfair, but he pushes it down. Maybe they could just have sex now and figure things out later.

He sits up and takes Evan’s face in his hands, sliding a hand up into his soft blond hair. Evan smiles cutely at him with a flash of perfect white teeth, sending an aching pang through his body. Amir leans in to kiss him, sucking on his bottom lip. Evan drags him onto his lap, and they go at each other, open-mouthed and groping.

Amir sinks into him. He’s tingling all over now, and suddenly lightheaded. He can’t fight this any more than he could fight the ocean.

“I thought you had a boyfriend,” Evan whispers to him.

“I don’t see him around, do you?” Amir kisses his neck. “Got a condom?”

“Yeah…”

“Came prepared, huh?”

Evan flushes. He’s so white, he’s always flushing. “I always have a condom.”

“Yeah? Think you’re hot shit, huh?”

“Shut up…”

 

*

 

About fifteen minutes into the trembly, wonderful sex he and Evan end up having, Amir hears shouting from Mia’s room across the hall. He doesn’t pay attention at the time; she’s always shouting.

They cuddle when they’re done, noses pressed together and Evan with his hand tangled in Amir’s hair. He draws back after a while, his eyes roving over Amir’s face.

“What?” Amir says.

“I just wanna look at you.”

He laughs. “Weirdo.”

“Shut up…” Evan smooths his thumbs over Amir’s cheeks.

Amir wants to make fun of him some more, but no burns come to mind. He’s too happy, too sick with puppy love. He smiles without meaning to, his fact hot and happy. He’s been pretending he didn’t miss this for so long now, finally having it back is like being churned by waves. He can’t tell up from down.

“I used to stare at you in Latin,” Evan says huskily. “Like a total weirdass, just stare and stare.”

“Seriously? I never caught you.”

“Yeah, ‘cos you were a nerd, always taking notes…”

Amir elbows him in the chest. “You liked me even back then?” he says, his voice soft.

“I liked you for a while, yeah,” Evan admits.

His cheeks and chest flush with heat. “Wow, that’s embarrassing.”

He laughs. “Shut up… I have so much shit on you, don’t even start with that.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“How about in sixth grade when you had a crush on Danny DiLoreto, so you tried out for baseball and got beaned in the head with a line drive the second you came on the field —“

“Stop, stop!”

“— and I had to sit with you in the nurse’s office while you cried, and when you came back to school on Monday, Danny went up to you to ask if you were okay and called you _Azeer,_ and you told him to fuck off, and he was so confused?”

“Stop!” Amir cries, laughing hysterically. “Jesus!”

“He was like, ‘Azeer, but I didn’t hit you! I wasn’t batting, I was in the outfield!’”

Amir collapses into his chest, giggling.

“He was always an idiot, that guy,” Evan says. “He was in my SAT prep course, and he was even dumber than me.”

“You’re not dumb. Shut up. You're just not book smart.”

“Maybe.”

They look into each other’s eyes for such a long moment that Amir shivers. Evan lifts his other hand and presses his palm to Amir’s, intertwining their fingers.

“Piano hands,” Evan mumbles, stroking his thumb up the inside of Amir’s wrist.

“Sing us a song, you’re the piano hands,” Amir jokes, a little punchily, and they both laugh.

There’s a knock at the door. It takes them a moment to register it.

“Go awa-ay,” Evan groans under his breath.

“I’m busy,” Amir yells, clearing his throat.

There’s another knock, to the rhythm of shave and a haircut, two bits.

“Shit,” Amir sighs, then rolls off the bed and starts pulling his jeans back on. Evan flops onto his stomach and looks up at him questioningly.

“It’s Mia,” he explains. “It’s our emergency knock.”

“Emergency knock?”

“Not like the boat is sinking kind of emergency. Like something stupid happened, and we have to smoke weed and talk about it kind of emergency.”

“You guys have a knock for that?” Evan says, laughing.

Amir pulls a shirt over his head. “Um,” he says awkwardly, trying to stave off the serious conversation he can tell is on the horizon just from the look on Evan’s face. “You should try to go to sleep, you remember how Liam’s a psycho about breakfast.”

“Yeah, sure,” Evan says. “But can we, like…”

“Get to the elephant in the room?”

“Right.”

Amir nods. “We’ll talk.”

When he opens the door to the hall, Mia says in annoyance, “What took you so long?” then takes a second look at him. Her eyes go wide. “Oh, shit, you _didn’t_.”

“Shhh,” Amir snaps, pulling his door shut hard behind him. “Come on, let’s go up top.”

“You’re so bad,” Mia says to him as she climbs up the stairs, pausing for a moment as the boat sways. “I can’t believe my little brother is sluttier than me.”

“Shut up!”

“You’re Dad! You’re literally turning into Dad.”

“Which?”

“Pops,” Mia says.

Pops is Zayn. They started calling him that last year, when his hair started getting really gray in front — he refused it until they threatened to start calling him Gramps instead, and then he gave up.

They climb up above deck. The yacht is speeding along, cutting through the dark haze of the ocean where it meets the sky. The moon is almost full, and it’s casting a long trail of gleaming light on the surface of the water.

“Hi Tom,” Mia shouts to the captain two floors above them, up on the bridge. He leans back in his chair and waves to them.

They make their way over to the edge of the lounge, leaning on the railing. Mia fumbles around in the pocket of her North Face while Amir watches the dark California coast go by on their left.

“Here,” she says, handing Amir a blunt and a lighter.

Amir gratefully accepts and lights it, blowing smoke into the crisp air.

“You have a huge hickey,” Mia informs him.

Amir shrugs, though he’s privately embarrassed. Stupid Evan, how many times does he have to tell him he has sensitive skin?

“You know, you have a boyfriend, Meer.”

He snorts. “I’m sick of him,” he says, handing the blunt over. “I swear he’s only with me ‘cos I’m famous.”

“Okay, I’m sure that’s not the only reason.”

“Yeah. Well. I’m gonna break it off, anyway.”

“Are you getting back together with Evan?” she says, eyeing him.

He shrugs again. “He’s in a weird place… I’m in a weird place. I just missed him a lot, is all. I feel like we only broke up ‘cos we couldn’t see each other, and now I’m seeing him. I dunno. But who knows how long for? Like, I go back to New York in August. And I don’t even know what he’s going to do with his life. I don’t think he’s going to go to school.”

“Right.”

“Maybe all this was a mistake. I feel like maybe we should just go back to being friends.”

Mia takes a long hit. “I don’t believe for a second that’s what either of you wants.”

“Yeah, well!”

“Look, at some point he has to join the real world.”

“I think he knows that.”

“So, maybe he could get a job in New York,” Mia suggests, passing the blunt back to him. “You know? You guys could get an apartment.”

“Yeah, lemme just tell the dads I need rent money to live alone with a guy I’m sleeping with. Like I even _want_ to do that.”

“Why not? You guys were together for a whole year.”

“I like my space. Plus I have really good roommates this year.”

“You have intimacy issues.”

“You’re so full of it. And how exactly am I turning into Zayn?”

“Uh, besides getting the exact same tattoo he has?”

“On my _back_ , it’s not the same.”

“Whatever. I meant with the cheating,” Mia says in that matter-of-fact way of hers.

Amir blows weed smoke in her face, unpleasantly surprised and feeling a little guilty. “I’m not _married_ to Sam, the fuck. And like Dad’s that much better.”

“Please.”

“He was sleeping with an engaged guy! His close friend’s fiancé!”

“I don’t think her and Dad were that close.”

“She was at him and Liam’s wedding!”

“Okay, fine,” Mia allows. “But then there couldn’t have been super hard feelings, plus, he wasn’t the one who was _engaged_ , like, seriously?”

Amir ignores her and starts ticking off Louis’ crimes on his fingers. “Sleeps with his friend’s fiancé, gets pregnant, starts sleeping with one of his baby daddy’s best friends, then dumps _him_ —“

“So that’s messy, but it’s not the same as cheating.”

“Fine, then I’m messy,” Amir says. “Me and Sam are open, anyway, so it’s not cheating.”

“Really?” she says dubiously. “You guys sleep with whoever you want? He wouldn’t have any problem with you hooking up with your ex who you were crazy serious about?”

“We’re supposed to talk about it first,” Amir admits. “But I have a feeling he’s fucking his own ex, so whatever. Not my fault.”

He had never minded the open relationship thing, because he liked being free to tomcat around when the desire arose — plus nobody Sam asked for permission to sleep with was interesting or good-looking enough to even come close to threatening him. He supposes that the only reason Ian threatened him was because he and Sam seemed like they’d been genuinely happy together — Amir knew they had broken up on flimsy pretenses, and they’d probably get back together if they had the chance. Just like him and Evan, if he’s honest with himself.

It was a blow for Amir to realize that being good-looking would get you into people’s pants, and no further. That good relationships took hard work and real friendship, you couldn’t charm your way into or out of one. It was all about honesty and kindness and all that really difficult, soul-baring shit. He should have known. He grew up watching his dads and stepdads nurse each other through the flu and fart on each other — of course love wasn’t just about sex. 

It would be so much easier if it were, though. Truly, there is no justice for hot people.

“You have a feeling,” Mia repeats dubiously, taking the blunt back.

“Even if he’s not, he wants to, so.”

“This is all so freshman year of you,” Mia says.

“You’re barely older than me, shut up.”

“Just break up with him, Amir.”

“Why don’t you just break up with _Jake_? I don’t get why you’re even with him.”

Mia laughs a raspy little chuckle. “I think I just did,” she says, and takes a drag.

“Wait, seriously?”

“Maybe. We got in this huge fight about whether or not I think he’s a _‘serious artist_ ’.”

Amir chokes out a laugh. “For real? I mean, you don’t, right?”

“Of course not. But he like, would not stop bothering me until I said it. Finally I was like, I’m not gonna say it. I think your photography has potential, but you’re not a genius. And he was like —“ (she adopts a mewling tone) “— _how could you say that, you’re my girlfriend, you’re supposed to support me!_ I was like, dude, I tell people the truth. I always have. And he said some bullshit about how if I were an _artist,_ who had a real passion, I’d understand. So I just grabbed the weed and left.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“Whatever.” Mia hands him the blunt. “It’s fine. I’m focusing on school this next semester, I need to get serious about that.”

“But you didn’t even want to be a business major,” Amir says. “You just picked it at random ‘cos _Patrick_ suggested it, of all people.”

Mia smiles wryly, then bends over the railing and lets out a laugh. “Okay, fine, I have no idea what I’m doing, mostly,” she admits. “I just like pretending I do.”

“Duh,” Amir says, and she elbows him.

“I’m just not gonna waste my time fluffing up his ego,” she continues with no segue. “You know, he’s only been to _one_ of my games? I’ve gone to like five of his photo exhibitions.”

“Deeply lame.”

“And he never laughs at anything I say,” she says. “I’m funny, right?”

“Mia, Jesus, just dump him,” Amir says. “None of us like him, were just waiting for you to come around.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Just being honest.”

“Yeah, well, you need to dump Sam. Did you and Evan hook up, for real?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“You _have_ to break up with him.”

“I know,” Amir sighs. “Can I text him it?”

“Amir!”

“Why not? That’s how I broke up with Evan.”

She shakes her head at him. They hear footsteps behind them and turn; it’s Louis, shrugging his own fleece on.

“Oi, you holding out on me?” he says with a grin.

“Dad,” Amir complains.

“Dad tax,” Louis says, sidling up to the railing, extending his open palm.

Amir hands the blunt over, and Louis takes a hit, exhaling through his nose.

“Shouldn’t you be yelling at us?” Mia says.

Louis shakes his head. “Already fucked you two up, haven’t I?” he jokes. “Focusing all my scolding on the twins, now.”

“Why are you even up?” Amir says. “I thought you guys went to bed.”

“Hmm, did you?” Louis says, poking a finger into the hickey on Amir’s neck and giving him a look. “Thought I said no funny business on the boat.”

Amir slaps his hand away. “Sto-op.”

“I was on the phone with your dad, actually,” he says, looking out at the ocean as he ashes the blunt carelessly onto the deck.

Mia and Amir exchange a glance.

“He’s dropping out of the tour, isn’t he,” Mia says.

“No!” Louis hands her back the blunt. “He just wanted to talk.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Louis insists, but he doesn’t make eye contact with either of them as he says it. “Just a bit anxious. You know how he is about tours. Plus he has a hard time, y’know, with seasonal changes,” he adds lamely. “It’s been a very warm spring…”

“Did you tell him he can drop out if he wants?” Amir says, feeling a flutter of his own anxiety. Ever since he was very little, he’s had this fear of Zayn disappearing entirely — just vanishing inside his own troubled psyche and slipping away forever.

“Yes,” Louis says gently. “He knows that.”

Amir takes the blunt from Mia, and the three of them stand there for a while, smoking in silence as they watch the ocean pass by underneath them.

“So, why the late smoke?” Louis says when they’re down to the filter, which he flicks into the water.

“Jake and I got in a fight,” Mia says, pulling a backup joint out of her pocket and twirling it in her fingers. “And Amir hooked up with Evan.”

“ _Mia!_ ”

Louis grimaces. “Amir…”

“I didn’t plan it, it just happened!”

“Protection?”

“Ugh,” Amir says, covering his eyes with his hands. “Yeah, Jesus.”

“I’m just checking! ‘Cos I’ve got stuff, alright? I won’t judge, I just want you safe.”

“Dad,” Mia says, laughing. “You’re so… ‘do you guys need anything? Snacks, a condom? Except it’s you, so it’s like…”

“You need snacks, a rubber? Come frew,” Amir says, imitating him. “I got a two hundred pack o’ rubbers in me bag, love. I brought one pair of trousaaahs and six hundred con-dooohms.”

The two of them fall out laughing. Louis watches them, his eyes twinkling. “Have you quite finished? And are we out of weed?”

“Nah, we both have more,” Mia says. “But only enough for the next few days.”

“Mmm, let’s save it, then,” Louis says. “I’m gonna have to be a leech, I’ve just got a couple cigarettes.”

“Dad, no,” she says, her face falling. “You quit!”

“Only on land,” Louis jokes.

“That’s not funny,” she snaps.

“I’ve been really, really good,” he counters. “It’s down to a pack a year, max. I’ve been working on this pack for ages.”

“It should be none!”

“Alright, alright, then share what you’ve got in your hand there. I’ve got insomnia.”

Mia hands the joint over to Louis and takes the nearly-empty cigarette pack from him, pocketing it. Louis puts the joint in his mouth, lighting it with Mia’s lavender Bic and taking two big hits in a row.

“Dad,” Amir complains.

“Y’know, I did carry you both for _nine_ months,” Louis says. “And give birth to you, and raise you. I think that’s worth a bit of weed for your old man.”

“One g,” Mia says, grinning. “Maybe two.”

“Cheeky! I had you in a car!”

“That’s hardly _my_ fault.”

“No, it isn’t.” Louis blows smoke. “So, Amir, don’t you have a new boyfriend? A not-Evan boyfriend? Have you dumped him or something?”

“No,” Amir says, embarrassed.

“Hmm,” Louis says. “Maybe you ought to, if you’re going to be up to no good with your ex?”

“God, you two are like the same person, sometimes… I hear every piece of advice twice, it’s so annoying.”

Louis laughs. “I’d just love for either of you to not learn a lesson the hard way, for once.”

“I don’t think that’s ever gonna happen,” Amir says.

“Hey, how much did this boat cost?” Mia says, peering over at their father.

Louis sucks in a breath and ashes the joint, passing it back to her. “You don’t want to know.”

“No, I do, seriously. I want you to include me in more financial things.”

“‘Cos she’s a _business major_ now,” Amir says sarcastically.

Mia hits him in the arm. “Shut it.”

“It was about five million,” Louis admits.

“Whoa,” Amir says. “Wait, who paid?”

“Joint purchase by me and Payno. And no fuckin’ resale value on this thing, either. Never buy a boat, either of you.”

“You spent two and a half _million_ on this boat, and you couldn’t stop him naming it after you?” Mia says. “You’re so whipped.”

Louis looks off toward the ocean, smiling. “A bit.”

“Mutually whipped, though. I want that.”

“You’ll get it,” Louis says. “You just need to find somebody who you’ve got that balance with.”

“You always make it sound so easy, like there’s just a ton of people out there who are gonna fit perfectly with you.”

“Nah, it’s more about the both of you putting the effort in. We don’t do it perfectly, we’re not perfect, but trying’s what makes a relationship really work.”

“Yeah,” Mia murmurs.

“You’ve got all the time in the world, besides. Right now’s your time to figure out who you are.”

He takes the nearly-cashed joint back from Mia, who pulls a weed pen out of her pocket and hits it.

Amir has a horrible realization, then. He can’t tell if he’s just high or this is actually super upsetting, but out of nowhere his chest is hot and his stomach is in a knot.

“I think I maybe have that with Evan,” he whispers, and slides down the railing until he’s sitting on the deck.

Louis flicks the roach off the yacht and squats down next to him. “Really?” he says, studying Amir’s face.

Amir nods. He’s thinking of all the things he wants to do with his life — go live in New Orleans for a while after school and learn how to play jazz the way it’s meant to be played, travel all over the world, alone, and hear the best orchestras. Cut an album. Smoke weed in Amsterdam. Party in Dubai. Ride a Vespa around Rome. Be anonymous for once. Be young, selfish and alone.

But he doesn’t want to be without Evan. He took him for granted for so long, but life feels empty without him in it.

Louis reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. “It’ll keep,” he says reassuringly, as if he’s just read Amir’s mind. It’s freaky how he does that sometimes. “Even if you both need some time to figure yourselves out, if you care about him like that, it’ll keep. Don’t put too much pressure on it right now.”

Amir sniffs, nodding. He doesn’t feel like saying anything mushy back, so he mutters, “Dad, stop throwing weed in the ocean. Turtles live there.”

Louis laughs and tousles his hair. “Sorry.”

Mia drops down next to them, sitting cross-legged on the deck. “Hey,” she says, “why didn’t I get any advice?”

“‘Bout what?” Louis says.

“Jake!”

“Oh shit, right. What was your fight about, then?”

She shrugs. “He thinks I don’t respect him as an artist, and I basically said yeah, I don’t. And he got mad.”

“Sweets,” Louis says gently, “that kid’s not really worth your time.”

“I know. I was just with him ‘cos I was bored and he’s cute.”

Louis sighs. “I want to say something to you both,” he says, “and it’s something I’ve avoided saying when you were younger ‘cos I didn’t want you to grow up arrogant or paranoid and, y’know, not trustin’. But when you’re in the situation of being a famous or somewhat famous person, you really sort of — it means you’ve got to be more discerning. I don’t mean who you casually date or hang out with, but about who you really trust.”

“We know,” Amir says, and Mia nods.

“Well, but it’s not just thinking they’ll be actively trying to take advantage,” Louis says. “A lot of the time it’s more subtle than that. You two grew up just casually hanging out around some of the finest musicians and performers of my generation. You’ve gone to Oscar parties of Harold’s and, y’know, chatted up Best Actor winners outside the loo. You’re used to a certain caliber of company, unfortunately, which might mean you’re goin’ it alone sometimes. Your upbringing’s got the defects of its virtues.”

“But Amir has Evan, at least,” Mia says, taking another drag off the pen. “He’s even richer than we are.”

“Evan’s a good example of somebody who can keep up, yeah,” Louis says. “But without being a spoiled twat.”

“God, this trip is gonna be awkward,” Mia mutters. “Three more days on a boat with Jake?”

“Well, he can always bunk with Tom,” Louis says, and they all laugh. “Maybe just make nice with him tonight, and then once we’ve docked, you can break it off for good.”

“Or,” Mia says, raising a sly eyebrow, “we can stop at the next port and kick him off the boat.”

“Mims.”

“What? I’d give him money to get home!”

Louis gives her a look.

She hits the pen again, looking innocent. “It’s maritime law, Dad. We can do whatever we want.”

“I didn’t say it was _illegal_ ,” Louis says, “it’s just very rude behavior. Also, I don’t think maritime law means everything is legal.”

“It doesn’t,” Amir puts in.

“Ooh, look at me,” Mia mocks his lower voice, “I go to _Juilliard.”_

“Ooh, look at me, I’m a dumbass who doesn’t know what words mean,” Amir shoots back, and gets hit in the arm by her for it. “Oww! Da-ad!”

“Tattler.”

“No hitting!” Louis says. “How many years is that gonna take to sink in?”

“Eighty,” Mia says, her expression very serious for a few seconds. Then she cracks up.

Amir turns to his father. “You weren’t serious that you’ve given up on us two not turning out fucked up, were you?”

“Oh, nooo, that wasn’t what I meant at all,” Louis says, reaching up to stroke Amir’s hair again. They watch Mia as she slumps onto the deck of the boat, full-body shaking with stoned giggles. “You two are turning out wonderful. I just still had a bit of growing up to do when I had you lot. I like that, though, I like that we grew together.”

“Me too,” Amir says, and Louis smiles at him.

“You look so much like Zayn in this light,” he murmurs, nudging Amir’s cheek with his knuckles.

“Hey...”

“Yeah?”

“D’you think I’m white?”

Louis’ brow knits. “What makes you ask?”

“I have to fill out an application, they’re not letting me put more than one thing.”

“Ahh.” Louis strokes his hair back off his face. “I don’t reckon that’s for me to say.”

“I’ve talked to Dad about it before… I wanna know what you think.”

He exhales. “You should put whatever feels most comfortable.”

There’s a soft iMessage ding; they look over at Mia, who pulls her phone out of her pocket and starts staring at it with a stoned, wide-eyed engrossment.

“I don’t know what feels comfortable,” Amir admits.

“They shouldn’t make you pick,” Louis says.

Amir shrugs, his stoned brain starting to buzz in his head, making words come out more easily and more loosey-goosey. “Feel like I’m not anything…”

“What d’you mean, love?”

“I feel like… I dunno, being the way we are… I’m not like a girl, but I’m not like most other guys, either. Not exactly, anyway…”

“No, you’re right,” Louis agrees. “We are a bit different, us.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s special, though,” Louis says. “Being in the in between. It’s valuable. People don’t like it ‘cos it challenges them, they get jealous, they feel threatened. You just keep on being exactly who you are. Not your job to make anybody feel comfortable.”

“I guess,” Amir murmurs.

“I always wanted both of you to know all the sides of yourself.”

“Is that why you named me Amir?”

Louis smiles. “Your dad suggested that.”

“But you wanted it too, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. After you were born, and I got to see you, I thought it suited you... it does, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I think so…”

“It’s regal, innit? Means prince.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to name you something princely. Thought about naming you George, even.”

“You thought I was princely?”

“Oh, from the start, yeah. Even the nurses thought so… You were such a lovely little baby, I was so chuffed. You had these big, like, intelligent eyes, and this little button nose. I had to bring you along everywhere, ‘cos you hated it when I left you, and everyone we saw always wanted to meet you... I was so proud you were mine.”

Amir stares at him in the darkness, suddenly hungry for more, hungry for motherly love. “Yeah?”

“’Course,” Louis says softly. “Always.”

Mia interrupts their nice moment by dropping her phone on the boat deck and bursting into a fresh round of giggles. They look over at her; there’s tears of laughter rolling down her face.

“Jesus, what’s so funny?” Amir says.

“Nothing,” she wheezes. “I saw a meme.”

“Oh Mimsy,” Louis says, “I think the weed hit you all at once, didn’t it?”

Her giggles peter out. “Maybe…”

“It’s ‘cos that pen is so loud,” Amir says.

“It helps my knee,” she mumbles, drawing circles on the deck with her finger.

Louis goes over to her and helps her to her feet. “You can kip on the couch in our room,” he says. “I don’t want you wandering around the boat, high as a kite.”

Amir scrambles up and wraps an arm around Mia’s other shoulder, so she’s balanced between them. “What about Jake?”

“He can fuck all the way off,” Louis says conversationally, which sends Mia into a fresh fit of giggles.

 

*

 

Amir drops Mia off with Liam and Louis and heads back down the hall, reaching one hand out to steady himself on the wood-paneled wall as the boat goes over a wave. When he turns the corner he sees Evan waiting outside the hall bathroom.

“Patrick’s in there,” Evan explains.

“Why didn’t you use the one in our room?”

“It’s not flushing,” Evan says. “Keeps running.”

“What, and you can’t fix it, mountain man?”

He laughs. “I’m a plumber now?”

“Shit,” Amir says, realizing he has to pee too. He bangs on the door. “Paddy!”

“Hold on!” Patrick yells back. “I can barely aim at this tiny toilet when the stupid boat keeps moving, I don’t need you yelling at me!”

“Just piss down the shower drain and get moving!”

“Shut up!”

Amir turns away from the door, rolling his eyes. Evan grins at him.

“Little brothers,” he says.

“They’re the worst,” Amir says.

They look at each other for a moment; they’re in such close proximity that their undertow of chemistry drags them in until they’re kissing almost immediately. Evan wraps his arms tight around Amir, pulling him close.

The door opens behind them. “Ew,” Patrick comments.

They reluctantly break apart. “Go to _bed_ ,” Amir tells him, wiping his mouth.

Patrick makes a disgusted face at him. “Don’t get your slutty germs all over the bathroom.”

“Don’t call people slutty. Did you wash your hands?”

Patrick draws his damp hands out from behind his back and flicks his fingers at Amir, who recoils in horror before he realizes it’s just water. “Yeah, I washed my hands, I’m not an _animal_ ,” he says, heading off down the hall.

“Likely story!”

Patrick shoots a grin over his shoulder, then disappears back into the room he’s sharing with Max.

“That kid’s gonna grow up and become the president of a frat,” Amir says.

“Or the country,” Evan says.

“Don’t even joke about that. Did I tell you what he got busted for a couple months ago?”

“Nah, you didn’t,” Evan says, and Amir remembers — oh, yeah, they’ve barely been talking lately.

He rushes past his embarrassment at the awkward oversight and says, “So, he kept sending me math homework and asking for my help. And I knew he was doing that ‘cos he just wanted me to just do it for him, and that was faster than actually helping him anyway, so I did. Anyway, he starts sending me a _ton_ of stuff, and some of it was above the level he was supposed to be at.”

“Right,” Evan says, his eyes twinkling like he knows where this is going.

“Yeah,” Amir says, “he was selling the answers I gave him to the other kids. First in his own class, then he started getting the worksheets from the other classes, then from the grade above him, and he’s sending them all to me. Pretty smart, honestly. I told him I figured him out, and he’s like oh shit, and offers to cut me in. I didn’t need the money, so I was like, look, I respect the scam, but just quit now ‘cos you’re gonna get caught.”

“You didn’t rat him out?”

“Nah, that wouldn’t be cool.”

“I’d rat _my_ little brother out,” Evan says.

“Yeah, but yours is an asshole,” Amir says. “I’d rat him out too.”

“So Patrick didn’t stop?”

“So, he actually did, but my dad noticed his Playstation had all these games on it that he knew he’d never bought him, ‘cos they were M-rated. So he’s like, Patrick, what the fuck, where are you getting hundreds of dollars? He was worried he was selling weed or something.” Amir laughs. “At _eleven_ , ‘cos that’s just how Patrick is. Not even worried he’s smoking it, but worried he’s selling it. And then _I_ got busted ‘cos of course he ratted on me. Little asshole.”

“That’s hysterical,” Evan says in admiration.

Amir pulls him in for another kiss, and this goes on for some time before Evan draws back and whispers apologetically, “Hold on a sec, I actually do have to piss.”

Amir rolls his eyes and waves him on, then leans against the wall as he waits.

He does worry about Patrick, now that he’s a bit older — not in that fussy mother hen way that Mia worries about their siblings, but more in an ‘I’ve been there’ way. He always wanted to be grown up just like Patrick wants to be grown up. He bristled at childhood just like Patrick does.

He and Mia both had bent the rules as much as possible when they were teens: sneaking out, partying, getting into drinking and smoking weed on the early side, experimenting with the harder stuff. Their rich, bored Calabasas friends were always into trespassing, petty theft and vandalism, and Amir got drawn into the world of sex as soon as his curfew first got extended. He was fooling around at parties at fourteen, giving a girl head at fifteen, though he stopped short of going all the way before he was seventeen.

And that was so tame, compared to a lot of his friends. But he had things to tether him, just like Mia did. He had his constant and vibrant fantasies about adult life, the fabulous person he could be once he struck out on his own. He had AP classes and his daily regimen of hours behind the piano, masterclasses with Lang Lang, jazz band. And his sister had school plays, soccer, her teammates, her coach. If Patrick or Max gets bored of basketball, if they stay in Calabasas, if they get sucked into the wrong crowd, it could be bad. Especially for Patrick, who seems to have an unusually strong distaste for rules and authority.

But t’s also true that Amir was never watched as closely as the twins now are. When you have seven siblings and you’re bouncing between two houses, it’s easy to lose yourself in the shuffle, to run a con job on your distracted parents. It’s just the dads and the twins, now.

 

MORENO VALLEY, JUNE 18, 2036

After two miles of walking up hills and down gorges, past big rings full of fences, dozens of horse trailers, little stands selling tack or hot dogs, and busy people in riding breeches looking stressed, Mia finally finds Sunday. She’s sitting in a folding chair next to her horse, who’s hitched to the trailer behind her.

“Hey,” Mia shouts.

Sunday looks up; she was engrossed in polishing one of her boots. “Hey!” she yells back, jumping to her feet.

Mia beelines through the grass and wraps her up in a hug, squeezing her. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“God, I know,” Sunday says. They part, and she calls over her shoulder, “Henri, could you bring another chair for Mia?”

“Amir’s on his way down too,” Mia says as Sunday’s scowling little Frenchman of a groom appears around the corner of the trailer and sets a chair down with a flourish.

Henri huffs at this. “I only have so many chairs,” he says.

“That’s chill,” Mia says amiably. “I’m happy to make him sit on the ground, no worries.”

Sunday laughs at this. “Henri, can you bring me some more electrical tape?” she says. “The white roll, please, it’s for Duchess’s boots.”

He nods and marches away.

“Everyone’s soo on edge,” Sunday whispers. “My coach is driving our whole team crazy.”

“What about?”

“Three of the girls from his stable will qualify for NAYC if we place well enough today and on Friday,” Sunday says. “Including me.”

“Hell yeah! And I bet you’re ahead of everyone, right? You always are.”

A roll of white tape comes flying out of the door to the trailer’s dressing room and lands near Sunday’s feet. “Thanks Henri,” she calls. “Um, I got a really good dressage score. But like, it could all totally go to crap in the next two rounds, so I’m trying not to be too confident.”

“I’ll be confident for you, then.”

Sunday laughs, looking kind of frazzled. “When I’m done, then I can relax.”

“Yeah, you’re coming home, and we’re gonna have a beer,” Mia says sternly. “I’m making you promise.”

Sunday grins. “Sounds good to me. Thank you guys for coming out, by the way.”

“Of course! We figured, y’know, since the dads couldn’t make it…”

Liam and Louis flew out for London a few days ago, so they’d have time to get the boys settled before they start rehearsing for their first show on Monday night.

“I still can’t believe they’re going on tour,” Sunday says. “When was the last time they went on tour? Were we in middle school?”

“I think so!”

“And with Zayn? That’s so wild.”

“I know, right?” Mia goes quiet — she talked to Zayn yesterday, and he sounded tired and distracted, although he told her he was excited to be back on stage again and she shouldn’t worry about him.

A golf cart rolls down the hill and through the aisle created by the long rows of horse trailers, squeaking to a stop in front of them. Amir hops out of the passenger seat and says to the driver, a middle-aged woman, “Thanks gorgeous, much appreciated,” at which she laughs appreciatively and gives him a pinch on the cheek before driving away.

Amir saunters over, eating a hot dog.

“What the fuck,” Mia says to him. “I walked the whole way, and my knee’s killing me today.”

“I know, you’re so stupid,” Amir says. “You should’ve just waited with me, there’s people on golf carts everywhere. I just stood there looking lost, then she pulled up and offered to take me wherever I wanted to go.”

Sunday goes back to polishing her boot. “I bet she did,” she murmurs.

Amir shoves more of the hot dog in his mouth. “What’s that mean?” he says with his mouth full.

“Just that women think you’re so _charming_ ,” Mia says. “It’s annoying.”

Amir winks at them.

“We’re immune,” Sunday says. “So what have you guys been up to?”

“Honestly, not much,” Mia says. “I’ve just been working out, going to practice.”

“We dumped our boyfriends,” Amir says, sliding his hands into the back pockets of his black jeans and adopting a model-esque slump in lieu of something to lean on. “So we’ve just been drinking.”

“Wait, really?” Sunday says, looking up at Mia in surprise. “You didn’t tell me you dumped Jake. I never even got to meet him.”

She flaps her hand. “You didn’t miss out on much. Amir’s got way more drama, he’s back together with Evan.”

Sunday goes “What!” and her horse looks up from its hay bag to nicker softly at her.

“I’m fine, Duchess,” Sunday says, reaching up to pet her on the nose.

“We aren’t back together,” Amir says, finishing his hot dog and rolling the wrapper up between his palms. “We’re just hanging out again.”

“Have you even talked yet?” Mia says. “Like, in a serious way?”

“Relax,” Amir says with an eye roll. “I missed hanging out with him, I wanna catch up on that first.”

Mia doesn’t say anything. She thinks Amir is afraid about what he said on the boat, afraid that he’s in love with Evan. It makes sense — it’s an enormous thing to feel, and Amir isn’t exactly the most emotionally mature person she knows.

“What’s Jason up to?” Sunday says. “I feel like I’m so out of the loop. Oh, hey Katherine!”

A auburn-haired girl in jodhpurs is walking by; she greets Sunday cheerfully, then very obviously checks Amir out as she passes behind him.

“Ew,” Mia says when she’s gone. “That is so unfair, you don’t even like girls!”

“Oh, was she looking?” Amir says airily.

“Yeah, she was checking out your butt.”

“Guys, she’s a _Kennedy_ ,” Sunday whispers.

He smirks. “A Kennedy likes my butt?”

“Like there’s even anything there to look at,” Sunday says.

“Hey, untrue,” Amir says. “I’ve been going to the gym.”

“Yeah, he’s put on some muscle,” Mia says. “Show her.”

Amir flexes his biceps, then turns around for them.

“Ohh, yeah, alright,” Sunday says. “You‘re a _tiny_ bit less skinny, I’ll give it to you.”

He turns back and curtsies.

“Girls like you too, Mia,” she adds.

Mia’s face gets hot. “What girls?”

“Girls,” Sunday says slyly. “I notice them looking at you. You have that confident jock energy.”

Mia’s too tickled to even know what to say to this, so she just laughs. “You know that’s true about you too,” she says. “Like, you’re skinny and beautiful and a million feet tall. You just slouch all the time and hide your face.”

Sunday makes a noncommittal, embarrassed noise, then looks up at Amir expectantly.

“What?” he says.

“I asked you if you’ve heard from Jason.”

“Ohh. Uh, no. He’s still in Jersey, he didn’t come back for summer break. He joined a band, he’s been really into that.”

Sunday nods. “He’s been going to Yale, or something?”

“Princeton. His dad bought him in there. Honestly, no one really talks to him anymore... it’s whatever.”

“That’s so weird,” Mia says. “He’s been around for forever.”

Amir shrugs. “Things change. You know, Sunday, he kinda had a thing for you.”

Mia turns to Sunday in surprise; she just smiles coyly and says, “I figured.”

“What!” Mia exclaims. “No one ever told me about this! Was it mutual?”

Sunday shakes her head. “Not my type.”

“What _is_ your type? I know you like tattoos, but that’s literally all I know.”

“Good luck getting any information from freaking Jason Bourne over here,” Amir says. “Know what, I think she’s secretly into horses. She’s a horse-sexual.”

Sunday laughs good-naturedly, then sets her boots down and slips them over her gangly calves. “So, are you guys worried about the wildfire at all?”

Amir makes a _skrt_ noise to punctuate this abrupt topic swerve.

“Nah,” Mia says. “I mean, we’re keeping an eye on it. I’d be surprised if we had to evacuate, though. It’s not even fire season.”

Sunday gives her a wary look out of the corner of her eye. “Have you had to start wearing masks outside yet?”

“Not yet,” Mia says firmly.

She ignores Amir’s gaze. He’s been anxious about the wildfires, mostly because their dads and stepdads are out of town. She’s trying to hide her own concerns to keep him on an even keel, so he doesn’t call Louis or Zayn up and freak them out when they’re already stressed out about this tour. If the smoke gets bad enough, they’ll jump on Harry’s plane at LAX and evacuate. It’ll be fine.

“So,” Mia says. “You said you’re done with the, like, dancing part? Are you about to jump the giant fences?”

Sunday snorts. “I’m done with dressage, yeah. I jump in thirty minutes.”

“Perfect,” Mia says, getting to her feet. “Amir, show me where you got that hot dog.”

 

LONDON, JUNE 21, 2036

It’s strange to be on stage at Wembley again, especially in the middle of the day like this, and with the whole thing empty. Louis stares out at the turf pitch, which has yet to be covered up like it will be on Monday.

Behind him, the backing band is banging around setting up for rehearsal. They've got Sandy back, which is quite nice — he’d badly sprained his wrist in the spring, and they were afraid he’d have to pull out. Their new tour manager Christine is walking around with the venue management, pointing out things she needs changed by tomorrow. And One Direction themselves are doing vocal warm ups and guzzling down water.

Except for Zayn, who’s late. Again. Louis catches Harry’s eye as he walks by and taps his wrist. He’s not actually wearing a watch, but Harry gets the gist and sighs.

“He’s coming, boys,” he says.

Liam glances up from fiddling with his mic stand. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Your husband did.”

“I didn’t say,” Louis says. “I gestured. It’s just this is the third time he’s done this, and we haven't sung with the guy in decades. I just don’t want to look like open mic night at Wembley.”

“Oh, we should change our tour name,” Harry says sarcastically. “ _An Evening with Amateurs.”_

Niall is the only one who laughs at this. “Ha,” he says, “like _An Evening with Fleetwood Mac_. Funny stuff.”

“I’m sure he’ll be here shortly,” Liam says, flicking his gaze between Harry and Louis, who have been tense with each other ever since they landed in London.

They’ve already been clashing over Zayn, and the overall mood has gotten worse now that these wildfires are creeping south. Instead of being cheerful and optimistic about the tour like normal, the band’s been absorbed in very adult fears about their children, houses, and belongings. Louis spent an hour in Zayn’s hotel room last night, talking to the head of his and Liam’s security team on speakerphone about potential evacuation logistics for the kids while Zayn listened in silence, pacing back and forth. Harry and Liam took off on their own to get dinner; the two of them are dealing with their fear by keeping their minds off it, although Harry had again offered the use of his jet this morning over breakfast, since it’s docked in a private terminal at LAX.

“Yeah, we’ll fly them out here if the smoke gets any worse,” Louis said. “I don’t want them inhaling that shit for days and days.”

Liam, without looking up from his omelette, said in a flat little voice, “Sunday said they evacuated the stables at her barn last night, just in case. They flew all the horses like forty miles east.”

Niall whistled. “They must be worried.”

Liam had nodded and chewed on his lip.“Well, she said it’s ‘cos stables catch fire so easy...”

Looking at Liam now under the hot stage lights, Louis can really tell how anxious he is. He got a few hours of happiness the other day, when Sunday called to tell him she got first in her division on Friday and was going to qualify for NAYC, and then she drove up north to the house and found herself in a alien world of smoke. She told them she was greeted at the door by Mia and Amir wearing surgical masks and holding beers out to toast her win. Liam’s been distracted and antsy ever since.

Zayn appears around a corner and ambles across the stage toward them, waving hello. Harry glances at Louis with a cocked eyebrow and small smile like, _See?_

Louis bites his tongue. He knows Harry feels like he’s been stepping on his toes — worrying about Zayn’s state of mind, checking in with him about their kids, accidentally reminding Harry at every turn that they used to be married, too.

It should feel like two married couples on the tour plus Niall, but it doesn’t. They shouldn’t have expected it to. There’s too much complicated history between the five of them to cleave neatly like that. Although the album itself is unmessy — it can be easily split up into not-necessarily-romantic songs they’ve written about life, songs Liam and Louis wrote together about each other, songs Harry and Zayn wrote separately about each other, and songs Niall wrote about Winnie and all the women who broke his heart before Winnie.

Louis tries to focus on his breathing. He has a big solo in their lead single, which they’re debuting when they open their first show. Liam and Julian wrote most of it in private before they showed it to him for notes. The solo was a little gift to Louis, a really meaty verse that highlights his voice perfectly. Liam had gotten a very long and loving blowjob for that one.

It’s hard to concentrate on the music, though, when he can’t stop thinking about his kids. They could leave the city entirely, but Sunday and Mia both have obligations in Los Angeles this upcoming week — Mia has practices and an exhibition game, and Sunday has all sorts of meetings with her coach and a scout for the 2040 World Equestrian Games. When Louis floated the idea of them coming out to London, Mia said, “Jesus, Dad, it’s just smoke. We’ve been through this before. It’s the wet season, it’ll blow itself out in a day or two.”

So Louis just feels uneasy and prickly all the time while he remains in purgatory. He doesn’t want to overreact to something that’s a fairly normal occurrence in SoCal these days. He just keeps texting the three of them for no reason, pretending he’s just checking in, sending them funny photos of Liam or pictures from around London just so he can get a text back and know they’re still doing alright.

It doesn’t help that he’s away from the twins for the first time in years. His family sends him updates daily, but after twenty straight years of bringing up his kids, he always feels strange being separated from them. He misses his boys’ sweet faces, their playfighting and their yelling.

“Hey mate,” Liam says to Zayn.

“‘Lo,” Zayn mumbles. He goes over to a mic stand near Niall and adjusts it to his height, then starts warming up with no preamble. He sounds great immediately, of course, which is so annoying of him.

“So I was thinking,” Niall says, “you know how on _Turn Around_ , in the studio version we have the drums an’ bass kick in after Harry’s verse? I was thinkin’ live we could delay it a little, wait ‘til after mine, and then just totally bring down the house.”

“I like that,” Louis says. “Amp up the anticipation.”

“It’s gonna be weird not having them sing along that first night,” Harry says.

“Yeah, but it’s worth it for everyone’s reactions when they see Zayn walk out,” Liam says. “Can’t believe that hasn’t leaked yet...”

Louis glances over at Zayn, who he sees to his relief is smiling.

“Plus, we’ll do old hits,” Niall adds. “Won’t just be us playing to a silent crowd all night.”

“And we drop the album the same night, so they’ll all know the whole thing by the second date,” Louis says.

Harry nods. “Niall, let’s sound check that version,” he says. “Sandy? Dan? We’re just gonna do _Turn Around_ real quick.”

The backing band gets into their places behind the boys, who make sure that their mics are on and working. Christine walks by again, giving them a big thumbs up.

 

THE CORINTHIA, JUNE 22, 2036

Louis finds Zayn on the balcony of his and Harry’s room, smoking and looking out over the Thames.

“Want some company?” he says, stepping out into the damp night air and sliding the door shut behind him.

“Yeah, sure,” Zayn says, pushing on the chair across from him with his foot so it slides out for Louis to sit on, which for the two of them is downright gentlemanly.

Louis settles across from his ex-husband and really looks at him. He seems well-rested, but his face is drawn. The gray in his hair usually makes him look distinguished and regal, but right now he just looks middle-aged.

“Are you alright?” Louis says gently. “I feel like you’ve been sort of far away, lately.”

Zayn shakes his head and stubs his cigarette into the ashtray between them. “Ahh… I’ve just been a bit low. It’s not a big deal, it happens sometimes.”

“Like depressed?”

He shrugs and lights another cigarette.

“Zayn,” Louis prods him.

Zayn sighs through his nose, exhaling smoke like a dragon. “I’m alright, I swear. It’s nothin’ I haven’t been through before, just shitty timing.”

“You good, though?”

“‘M fine. It’s just I’m exhausted all the time lately, and I’m trying to save up my energy for the fucking tour, so I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit distant or late to shit… and it doesn’t help that there’s a wildfire headed for our kids.”

“It’s not headed for them, and we’re gonna get them out of there first thing tomorrow, alright?” Louis had pulled the trigger on their evacuation plan a few hours ago, when the air quality rating in Calabasas officially plummeted to 250. “You should get some rest and just put it out of your head.”

Zayn smokes harder, his jaw tightening.

“What?” Louis says.

“I keep having this thought that I’m gonna wake up to you telling me they’re dead,” he mutters, avoiding Louis’ eyes.

“Nooo, Zayn, no, my God! Look — I’ve got security on an overnight shift monitoring things, okay? You remember David, he was on the call with us? He’s ex-Mossad, alright? He’s got it handled.”

“I don’t know why _that’s_ supposed to make me feel better,” Zayn says, “that you’re using some crazy Zionist —“

“I just meant he was a government agent, he’s highly skilled in these sorts of situations!”

“Why not just get them out now?”

“And do what with them? Have them take off in a plane at night when the pilots can barely see through the smoke? Didn’t you hear there was a helicopter crash today in Burbank that killed three people?”

Zayn flicks ash off his cigarette. “No, been trying to avoid that sort of news,” he says icily.

“Look, they’re safer in that house than anywhere else in L.A., it’s a fortress up on a hill.”

“We should’ve flown ‘em out days ago.”

“Why would we have done that when it didn’t look like it was gonna get anywhere near them? Security’s still not even that worried about the fire at this point, they’re worried about the smoke.”

“Exactly,” Zayn says. “Should have flown them out the second they had to start wearin’ masks outside.”

“Come on, Zayn, we’ve lived in L.A. for two decades, this isn’t anything new!”

“What’s new is _we’re_ not there!” Zayn snaps.

“They’re adults now, alright?”

“So what?”

“So they had big things going on this week, they didn’t want to leave prematurely!”

“Nothing’s more important than their lives,” Zayn says, his eyes blazing. “God, the way you’ve always pushed those kids, it’s like you’re putting all your unreleased ambition into ‘em.”

Louis burns with shame and anger. “Hey,” he says fiercely, “I know you’re worried, I am too, but you don’t fuckin’ talk to me like that. You have high expectations for them too, don’t fuckin’ put that on my head.”

Zayn does, to his credit, look like he immediately regretted having said this. “Sorry.”

“I don’t push the kids past their limits. I’ve only ever just tried to encourage their passions and prevent them being useless rich layabouts, which is somethin’ you and me have always agreed on.”

“I know, Louis. I know. I’ve just got a bad feeling, and it’s weighing on me. That’s all.”

“You’ve always got a bad feeling.”

“That doesn’t mean this one’s wrong,” Zayn snaps, and stubs this cigarette out, too.

Louis doesn’t admit that he has a bad feeling, too, that his intuition is going off like a foghorn, and that’s why he made the evacuation order. It would only make Zayn feel worse. “Where’s Harry?”

“Out.” Zayn gets to his feet. “Doing what he always does. Talking to whoever, meeting with whoever.”

“Are you two havin’ issues?”

Zayn shrugs again, his movements tight and jerky like a spider. “He thinks I don’t want to be here. Just like the rest of you. I’m here, and I’m still getting shit from you four. Why don’t you leave me alone, Louis… call me if something happens, alright?”

“Come on, mate…”

Zayn ducks back into his room, not listening.

 

*

 

Louis heads back into his room down the hall and pauses in the entryway to the bedroom, shrugging his jacket off and slipping out of his shoes.

Liam is on the bed watching TV; he takes stock of Louis’ face and mutes it, looking at him expectantly.

“No, no, I don’t wanna get into it,” Louis mutters, stepping with great care up onto the bed (he had rolled his ankle earlier while gamboling around on stage). He flops down, crawling up next to Liam.

“He’s just letting his anxiety about the kids eat him alive,” Liam says. “You know how he is. Once we’ve got them safely out of there, he’ll bounce back.”

“He was being weird before that,” Louis mutters, peeling his socks off and shoving them in Liam’s face. Liam groans in dismay and bats them halfway across the room. “I dunno, and I feel like this is my fault. I should’ve evacuated them earlier. I’m just always so overprotective, so I felt like I was overreacting…”

“It didn’t seem like it would even get that bad ‘til this evening,” Liam says. “We’ve had wildfires before, you and I _bought_ that house ‘cos of how protected from shit it was.”

“Yeah.”

“Plus, David knows what he’s doing, he’s a maniac,” Liam says. “He was Mossad, d’you know what those guys have to do?”

“No love, what do they do?”

“Oh, I dunno either, but I bet it’s crackers.”

Louis smiles at him. “You’re cute.”

“Am I?” Liam says, smiling back.

“Yeah. I like that solo you wrote me a lot.”

Liam wraps his hands around Louis’ rib cage and leans up, pressing a kiss to his cheek and then cuddling into his shoulder. “I’m glad, babe.”

“It sounds like something I’d have written for myself, honestly.”

“Oh, the highest possible praise from Tommo.”

Louis grins and kisses him on the head. “I’m glad the boys are having fun, too.”

“Yeah, chasing your sister’s chickens around, or something? I didn’t get time to watch that whole video she sent.”

“You should, it’s very funny. Big pratfall by Paddy toward the end.”

“Let’s watch it now,” Liam says, getting his phone out. “His falls always crack me up. He falls exactly like you, you know.”

“Does he?”

“He does! His mannerisms are all yours, it’s funny.”

“No, not at all, he makes silly faces like you,” Louis says. “They both do.”

Liam is having trouble unlocking his phone. “Wot silly faces?” he says distractedly.

“All your faces. The one you’re making right now, lad!”

“I don’t make any silly faces.”

“You’re a human meme.”

Liam rolls over and blows a raspberry on Louis; Louis giggles.

“You’re worried too,” he murmurs, stroking Liam’s hair.

Liam rests his head on Louis’ tummy. “Of course,” he says huskily. “I’m worried sick. But we’ve got a plan, and we’re going to keep an eye on things.”

“Right.”

“Want an Ambien? I was gonna take one.”

Louis laughs. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, just to knock out… don’t think I’m gonna sleep too well, otherwise.”

“Aw, Payno…” Louis runs his fingers through his hair some more. “They’ll be fine. Sunday can toss everyone on her horse and ride out of there, yeah?”

Liam laughs. “Her horse is in Porterville, right now.”

“Well, there's my grand plan busted.”

“Probably better for them to go in a heli, anyway.”

“Probably.” Louis strokes his thumb over Liam’s cheek. “You’re a wonderful dad, you know. Do I tell you that enough? I probably don’t… you tell me all the time, I feel like I never tell you.”

Liam rolls onto his back, looking sweetly up at him. “Thanks, Tommo.”

Louis smiles at him, then says, “Maybe we can have Ambien sex?”

His face falls in displeasure. “Why d’you always want to fuck when you’re high on pills?”

“‘Cos it feels so good that way.”

“You’re such a weirdo.”

“Okay, ‘cos I have to be high to fuck the likes of you, is that better?”

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” Liam mock-threatens, and tackles him back onto the bed while he giggles and pretends to struggle. “Krav Maga!”

“What?” Louis laughs, fighting him off. “This is Krav Maga?”

“No, that’s what Mossad does. Krav Maga. My trainer told me that.”

“You think David’s gonna use Krav Maga on the wildfire?”

“You’re absolutely impossible,” Liam says, blowing a raspberry on his chest.

 

CALABASAS, JUNE 22, 2036

Sunday pokes her head out the door to the back porch for five seconds, then ducks back in and slams the door, coughing.

“Worse,” she confirms.

Mia gazes out the glass paneling over the rolling hills of Los Angeles to the east. The fire hasn’t gotten near them yet, but smoke has been continually rolling in. The sky is gray like it gets in England.

“Yeah, that’s what the news said,” she replies.

“We should just go,” Amir says, clearly antsy.

“We’re going tomorrow,” Mia says. “Security’s gonna make sure there’s nothing flammable close to the house, then we’re gonna chopper out the airport at like, seven.”

“Why don’t we just leave now?”

“The sun’s almost down, visibility’s bad, Dad said he doesn’t want to risk us taking off at night with all this smoke. Look, we’re fine. The sirens will go off if it starts getting close.”

Sunday is gazing out at the hills with one of those Clint Eastwood looks she gets, her dark eyes narrowed and her mouth a flat line. “We’re on high ground, anyway,” she says. “We’ll see it coming.”

 

*

 

Mia’s in the kitchen making popcorn when her watch starts ringing. She ignores it at first, but then she happens to glance down and see it’s Zayn who’s calling. She picks up, anxious.

“Dad?”

“Mia,” Zayn murmurs.

He sounds strange, and it’s even stranger for him to call him by her first name. He almost never does.

“Who’s Mia?” she jokes, but Zayn doesn’t laugh. “Dad, are you okay?”

“Yeah… ‘m fine… just worried about you kids.”

“We’ll be fine, we’ll evacuate first thing in the morning. God, why are you calling? It must be three in the morning over there.”

“Four,” Zayn says.

“Are you serious? You’re playing a concert for like ninety thousand people tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me. I just couldn’t sleep.”

She sighs. “Is Harry there?”

“Yeah, ‘e’s sleeping... I’m out on the balcony.”

“I’m gonna be okay,” Mia says, anxious. “I’m just worried about you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, alright?”

“But are you depressed?”

There’s a long moment of silence.

“We all get a bit depressed sometimes,” Zayn says hoarsely. She can tell he’s smoking a cigarette.

“Dad…”

“I’ll let you go, Yas. Just text me when you get up in the mornin’, please?”

“Of course… I’ll text all of you first thing.”

 

*

 

The kids distract themselves by opening the dads’ liquor cabinet and putting on Hulu’s ‘Classic Episodes of ‘10s Reality TV’ station in the den.

“New drinking game,” Amir says, doing a tiny shot of Cointreau out of the cap of the bottle. “Every time Luann looks like she wants to kill somebody.”

“Every time Kourtney makes this face,” Mia says, then makes it, and they both crack up.

“Every time Corinne falls asleep,” Sunday says.

“Oh, _yesss_ ,” Amir exclaims. “I just want to watch that whole season, now.”

“Me too,” Mia says. “Amir, put The Bachelor on.”

“Hold on,” he says, hitting his watch’s screen. “These are all out of order...”

“Just open the search bar!”

“Ughh.” Amir flops to his side on the couch. “I’m too drunk. Fix it.”

“Hey,” Sunday says, “remember when…” She hiccups. “When Corinne said she was a corn husk?”

“ _I’m_ a corn husk,” Amir mutters.

This seems to strike Sunday as poignant. “Aww, we’re all corn husks.”

“TV, play _The Bachelor_ season… um, season whatever,” Amir says into his watch. “Corinne’s season.”

“It sounded like you said you’d like to watch _The Natural?_ ” the TV replies, filling the screen with a photo of Robert Redford in a baseball uniform.

“Nooo...” Amir takes his watch off and flings it onto the thick rug in annoyance. “Mia, put the news on.”

“I don’t want to,” Mia says. “They exaggerate everything, it makes you anxious. So what’s going on with you and Evan?”

Amir lifts his head and looks up at her with a feline resentment in his narrowed eyes. “You are obsessed!”

“I’m trying to change the subject, actually.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“You’re my little brother, I care about your life!”

“No, you’re lonely ‘cos you dumped your stupid boyfriend and you’re living vicariously through me.”

Mia throws a handful of popcorn at him. He picks it off of his hoodie and eats it.

“How’d you end up dumping Sam?” Sunday says to Amir.

“I called him,” he says, shrugging. “He wasn’t even pissed. He kept going ‘can we still be friends,’ which I know is only ‘cos he thinks since I’m famous I can introduce him to Joshua Bell or whatever.”

“We have no idea who that is,” Mia tells him. “Stop talking about random musicians like we know who they are.”

“He’s not a random musician, he’s a really big violinist.”

“How big?” Sunday says. “Seven feet?”

Mia and Sunday laugh while Amir rolls his eyes at them.

“I thought Sam plays the trombone?” Mia says.

“I mean, it doesn’t matter, but he plays the violin, too, we all play more than one instrument.”

“What do you even play besides the piano, Meer?”

“Hello — guitar? Bass? Banjo, a little?”

“ _Banjo_ ,” Mia repeats, and wheezes with laughter. “I remember the banjo phase, actually, so sorry for forgetting —“

“It’s a jazz instrument!”

“Right, right…”

“Maybe he wanted to stay friends because he thinks you’re talented,” Sunday says. “People don’t only like you because you’re famous, Amir. I mean, I know music is different from horses, because it’s the same industry the dads are in, but you have to realize by now that having rich and famous parents can only get you so far. The talent has to be there, too.”

Amir shrugs. “Yeah.”

“While I’m giving you a hard time, I just wanna say, we heard you and Evan laughing for like, _hours_ in your room last night,” Mia says. “I don’t get why you don’t just tell him how you feel about him.”

“Dude, we only just started talking again.” He rolls over onto his back. “I need more liquor.”

“I’m gonna go get the aspirin,” Sunday says, sliding off the couch and stumbling toward the door.

“Smart,” Mia says, slapping her on the back as she goes by. “Wait, Sunday, we haven’t talked about your love life at all.”

“Oh God,” Sunday calls over her shoulder. “Please no.”

“No-sex-having Teletubby,” Amir yells after her.

“Don’t use _Pump Rules_ against me,” she shouts back, and disappears into the hall.

“She’s so weird,” he says, once she’s out of earshot. “So secretive. Who does she talk to? She doesn’t tell us anything. She doesn’t tell her dad anything.”

“Because she talks to her friends, like a normal nineteen-year-old,” Mia says. “God, I barely tell my friends anything anymore... it’s just I don’t even have time anymore to talk to people beside my teammates, and we’re so competitive with each other, I’m like, afraid to show weakness.”

“Yeah!” Amir grabs her by the wrist as if to emphasize. “Same with my cohort, God.”

“Plus everyone at UCLA is _so_ smart. I know I only got in ‘cos of soccer and ‘cos I’m famous. And I just feel like such an idiot all the time.”

“Me too,” Amir says. “Like, no, seriously. I know I’m really smart. But I’ve always been one of the smartest people I knew. And now it’s like, literally everybody is smart. I don’t know _shit_ about Mozart.”

Mia giggles. “You’re funny when you’re drunk,” she says.

"I am zooted."

“We should drink together more often instead of just always smoking weed.”

“Yeah, if we don’t die in a fire.”

“Stop! What’s wrong with you?”

Amir shrugs. “I’ll feel better when we leave,” he mumbles.

“Tomorrow. First thing tomorrow, okay?”

“Fine, I guess.”

They’re quiet for a lull.

“Hey,” Mia says cajolingly, “remember when we all raided Liam and Dad’s liquor cabinet my sophomore year, and like two weeks later they had a party, and they texted us like, why’s our vodka taste like water? And you booked it down the street to Todd’s house so they couldn’t find you to yell at you, but Dad drove to pick you up and sat out front honking ‘til you came out?”

Amir laughs, tipping his head back. “I do… so dumb.”

“It’s funny in hindsight.”

“All our high school shit seems so innocent now.”

“That’s what college does to you,” she says.

“Right. And then adulthood does it even harder.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sunday comes back in and hands a bottle of ibuprofen to Mia, who takes two and passes it to Amir. They all down them; Sunday swallows hers dry like a madman.

“Sunday,” Mia says, “you and me should get our first tattoos together this summer.”

“Oh, I already have a couple,” Sunday says apologetically.

Mia’s eyes go wide. “ _What_? Since when?”

“Last year,” Sunday says. She lifts up her shirt and points to her hip, where there’s a small flower inked. “Me, Kirsten and Maggie got lilies together when we got A certified…” She lifts her shirt higher to expose her ribs, and there, in cursive script, are the words _don’t call me daughter_. “I got this one by myself last December.”

Mia stares at it, saddened. She kind of wishes Sunday had taken her along when she got it, but then again, it’s obviously kind of personal. Mia just always wants to protect and comfort her, like a little sister, and Sunday is so closed-off and private sometimes.

The small gulf got more pronounced once Sunday left school and went off on the eventing circuit. Suddenly she’s walking taller, talking with more confidence, taking longer to respond to Mia’s texts. Mia can’t help feeling a little rejected. A lot of her identity has always come from her younger siblings’ hero-worship of her — the twins admiring her for her mischief and athletic ability, her sisters admiring her for being a whirling dervish who was always running off to parties on the weekends she spent at Zayn and Harry’s, Amir looking up to her as a quasi-third parent, and Sunday looking up to her as the confident, take-charge extrovert.

But Sunday is the real athletic talent in the family, the one with a future in her sport, and she’s clearly realizing that of late. Mia feels a little obsolete and abandoned. In ten years, will Sunday be an Olympian, Amir a successful musician, and her nothing? She made soccer the center of her life, partly out of a passion for it, partly to make Louis happy — he loved having her to coach and play with, loved having her games to go to, something to put his heart and soul into — and partly because it didn’t take any real thought on her part. She had coaches, and her dad, and teammates, and, later, recruiters. There was a punishing but familiar schedule of workouts, practices and games. She could just give herself over to that. It felt like perpetual motion, even when she went off to college. New teammates, new coach, new setting, but same treadmill. Even when her knee exploded.

Now she sees the finish line, and there’s nothing beyond that. Just her left behind while everyone else reaches higher and higher echelons. And it seems like no one ever stops to think she might feel that way — all they see is her brash confidence. If you dig, there’s a wall of prickles, so no one ever bothers digging.

Amir clambers over the couch cushion, knocking drunkenly into Mia, and leans forward for a better look at Sunday’s ribs. “Wait, you have a Pearl Jam tattoo? Holy shit.”

“Why, do you hate it?” Sunday says, laughing. “You music snob?”

“It’s so corny it actually loops back around to being cool, so no, I love it,” Amir says. “Where’d you go?”

“Papa Chris in Santa Monica.”

Amir nods. “He did a good job.”

“Yeah, he did,” Sunday says. “The three of us should go to him and get a matching one.”

“Please,” Mia exclaims. “I’d love that, seriously.”

Amir spits in his hand and holds it out. “We’re doing it. Before me and Sunday turn twenty.”

“Ew,” Sunday says, grimacing. “I don’t want to shake that.”

“You’ll scrape your horse’s shit off the ground but you won’t touch my spit? Get over yourself. I’m the cleanest person you know.”

Sunday rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, and after a moment she shakes his hand.

 

THE CORINTHIA, JUNE 23, 2036

The next morning passes uneventfully. Louis wakes, early and abruptly, before Liam. He tries to occupy himself by showering and doing some tour promo on social media, but he can’t stand the loneliness for very long, so he wakes Liam up by kissing him over and over. Liam groans softly, but tilts his head up to give Louis better access to his lips.

Once they’re both up, Louis orders eggs from room service and then eats none of them, instead staring at his phone on the bed, waiting for someone to call despite the fact that it’s only two in the morning in Los Angeles.

“You should eat,” Liam helpfully informs him.

Louis looks down at the plate with disgust and bats it away from himself. “‘M fine. _You’re_ not eating.”

“That’s ‘cos I got overnight oats, and they’re disgusting.”

Louis looks. The oats lay abandoned on the room service cart.

“Want an egg?” he suggests.

Liam laughs, then pulls Louis’ plate over to himself. “We can share.”

“I’m really not hungry.”

“Have a biscuit. The ones that came with the tea set actually aren’t bad, they’re shortbread.”

“Mmm,” Louis says. His stomach is in knots, but his sweet tooth wins out. He goes over to the little kitchenette to fetch the biscuits, then brings the entire bag back over to the bed.

Liam looks up. “Crumbs,” he complains.

“Shut it,” Louis tells him, stuffing two biscuits in his mouth simultaneously. “‘Ey turn down t’ bed every nigh’ anyhow.”

“Crumbs linger.”

“ _Crumbs linger_? Who are you? Who am I married to?”

Liam laughs. “They do!”

“If they _li-inger_ , I’ll toss the whole mattress out the window and have them bring us a new one.”

“You’re absolutely impossible.”

“Yeah.”

Liam pokes at the eggs, then glances up at him. “They really will be fine, love, I believe that.”

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs.

He keeps saying that. Louis has been thinking all morning of when he went in to have the twins, how upset he’d been that they were premature. Even while he was having them, he had tears streaming silently down his face — he was so sure they’d be ripped from his arms and taken to the NICU as soon as they were out. But Liam, sick as a dog as he was, held his hand so tight and kept whispering in his ear, “They aren’t going anywhere. I won’t let the doctors take them.” As insane and ill-advised as that was, it gave Louis something to hang onto.

 

*

 

Louis is with Christine and Niall when he gets the call. They ran into her in the hallway of the hotel, mid-afternoon, and have stopped to chat about some security issues she’s concerned about when his phone starts ringing in his arse pocket. It’s David.

“‘Scuse me,” he says. He slips past them, his head starting to buzz with dread. He ducks into a wood-paneled alcove near the elevators and picks up. “Hullo?”

“Mr. Tomlinson,” David says, sounding grave. “I have bad news. I cannot get the helicopter up.”

“ _What_? What are you talking about?”

“We got to the airport, we were about to take off, and ATC ran out on the tarmac to stop us… the authorities have grounded all private air traffic. They don’t want anyone in the way of the smoke jumpers and airtankers.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry to tell you that the has fire reached Calabasas.”

Louis’ heart plummets into his gut. “ _What?_ No, it can’t have! It wasn’t moving nearly fast enough —“

“Apparently it was, and it did.”

 _“_ How? How?”

“The wind shifted west. It was very sudden.”

“Then drive to them!”

“That is what we’re trying to do right now. I am in the Humvee headed back in their direction. But there are a lot of checkpoints, and roadblocks up ahead.”

It’s the worst possible scenario of all possible scenarios. Of course, of course it fucking is, he should have expected this, he should have known. Louis feels so sick he thinks for a second that the biscuits might come back up. “I don’t care about roadblocks, drive through them!”

“That is, obviously, illegal — but we are doing our best.”

“I need more than your best, mate, okay, I need absolute fucking heroics here today. Those are my _kids_ , and I can’t do anything! I’m in another fucking country! You told us you had this handled! You kept reassuring me! Everyone swore up and down to me that the fire wouldn’t reach them!”

“I am so sorry, Louis. The weather is behaving bizarrely. I can’t account for it. This is a freak thing, no one has seen anything quite like this, no one could have anticipated it. There is zero percent containment, the authorities are scrambling right now.”

“Stop, stop, stop, I don’t want to know, just do whatever you can to get them safe.”

“I am stopped at a checkpoint right now, okay? We are making our way north as fast as we can. I’ll know more soon. I’ll text you.”

“Please do, mate. Every five minutes.”

“Aren’t you busy?”

“Every five minutes.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Thanks, David. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be short with you —“

“I understand. You have my sincerest apologies, and I promise you I’ll do everything I can. I’ll call when I know more.”

“Okay.”

They hang up. Louis drops into a squat on the ground, leaning his head between his legs. “No,” he mutters. “No, no…”

He’s supposed to be heading to sound check within the hour, and he can’t even think about performing. He can’t think about standing up and going to tell Zayn what he just heard without wanting to vomit.

 

*

 

Mia texts Louis, Zayn and Liam when she wakes up (sort of late — she’s a bit hungover). _Still alive_ , she says. _There’s full smoke now, I can’t really see much out the window. We keep getting alerts about the evacuation order._

 _David’s on his way,_ is what Louis tells her.

She knows something must be wrong when 9 a.m. ticks past with no sign of the helicopter, and a worrisome lack of specifics from her dad. Her suspicions are confirmed by a push alert around 9:30 — MASS CONFUSION AT L.A.X. AFTER COUNTY ISSUES GROUNDING ORDER.

They know the fire got to them overnight, and they can hear the civil defense sirens constantly wailing, but they don’t know much more than that. Orange light is pouring through the windows like they’re on the surface of the sun. Amir and Sunday hole up in the den to get away from it, while Mia paces upstairs, kicking a soccer ball around and gnawing anxiously at her lip. Why isn’t anyone telling them what’s going on? Why isn’t David here to take them away? What the fuck?

Finally Louis calls her.

“Mia?” he says, and she stops in her tracks. His voice is unnaturally restrained and sober, with none of his regular cheer. The sound of it strikes fear deep into her chest.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

“I can’t get a helicopter to you,” he says. “They’ve grounded all private air traffic, and it doesn’t look like they’re gonna go back on that before the end of the day today.”

“I knew that,” Mia says. “I got a news alert. I was just waiting for you to tell me.”

“Okay. But, love… I can’t get a car to you either.”

He says it with horrible guilt in his voice, and she reels, stunned. It’s like the bottom just fell out of the Earth.

“What about security?” she demands. “I thought you were sending security! Where’s David?”

“We’ve been trying really hard for like an hour now, but they put up a full roadblock and no matter who I call, I can’t get security past it. They’ve stopped letting any traffic north, they don’t want anyone getting in the way of the firefighters. They’ve started arresting anyone who tries to get past.”

“ _What?_ That’s crazy! How are we supposed to get out of here?” Her breathing quickens. “We’re fucking trapped! We’re surrounded by fire!”

“Mia, you need to listen to me,” he says, sharp enough that she shuts up. “You need to take Liam’s big truck, that big white Ford. D’you know which one I mean?”

“Yeah, but —“

“Take Sunday and Amir, and drive south toward the airport.”

She clings in desperation to a childish hope of being rescued. “But can’t the firefighters —“

“By the time they get there it could be too late.”

Mia’s trembling, now, her teeth chattering with adrenaline.

“I need you to stay tough,” Louis begs her. “Don’t panic. You can make it to the airport, I promise. It’s going to be a scary drive, but you can make it there. I’ve been talking to our neighbors, the roads are still drivable. I’ll talk you through every minute of it, but you need to leave now, right now _.”_

“Why _me_?”

“‘Cos you’re the one I trust to be in charge. You’re gonna have to drive stick, do you remember how to do that? You remember when I taught you?”

“Yeah, but Dad, they were gonna fireproof the house, what about the house?”

“Don’t worry about the house or any of that, the three of you just need to get out of there. _Now_. Take your wallets and phones and nothin’ else. I’ll be on the phone with you the entire time, love. If you can just turn on the truck’s location tracking, I can have security meet you as soon as you’re past the roadblocks, and they’ll take you the rest of the way in an armored car, alright? David’s gonna know exactly where you are at all times. You’re going to be fine. I’ll be talking you through the whole thing. I just need you to make this little drive.”

He’s talking really fast; he must be terrified. Mia feels herself getting lightheaded. She drops down onto the stair beneath her and puts her head between her knees, dragging in deep breaths.

“Mia,” Louis says urgently. “Hey. I need to know you heard me.”

“I’m here,” Mia mumbles into the phone. “I’ll get us out.”

She gets shakily to her feet and descends the stairs. The haze of the fires is glowing through the large windows in the entry hall, casting everything in a sickly, unreal tone. She starts walking toward the den, where Amir and Sunday are still glued to the news.

“Mia, I love you so much,” Louis says. His voice is crackly in her ear, like her service is getting worse. “You kids, you’ve brought so much pure joy into me life, I can’t even tell you.” He chokes up, then continues hoarsely, “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I just want you to know that. You mean everything to me.”

She freezes mid-step. “Oh my God, you think I’m going to _die_!”

“No, no, love, no, I just want you to know —“

“Tell me when I touch down in fucking London!”

“Mia —“

“No!” Mia cries, her heart pounding in her chest. “Tell me when my plane lands, Dad! ‘Cos you’re gonna see us again, okay?”

There’s an awful choked sound from him, then rustling against the receiver, and silence for a few moments. It’s broken by Liam’s ragged voice saying, “It’s okay, Mims. We’ll see you soon. Just get everyone in the truck and get out of there, alright? I love you.”

Mia wipes tears off her face with her sweatshirt sleeve. “I love you guys too.”

“Tell Sunday to talk us through what’s going on when you’re on the road? We want to make sure we stay on the phone with you no matter what.”

She exhales. “Okay. Hold on.”

Mia puts her phone in her pocket, muting her end of the conversation temporarily. She doesn’t want to upset her dad any further by making him listen to her explain the situation to the others.

In the den, Amir and Sunday are snuggled up against each other on the couch like they’re little kids again, sharing a tartan blanket. They’re watching the television with rapt stares. It flickers on their faces in the darkness. The volume is low, but she can hear the EAS tones as they blare over and over again.

Mia steels herself. Louis is right — she’s the only one who can do this. Amir’s too sensitive, he would panic, and Sunday would shut down, get obsessed with details and let herself be paralyzed into inaction.

She balls her hand into a fist and digs her nails into her palm, dragging in a breath. “Guys?”

They look over at her, wide-eyed like two lemurs in a tree.

“Are we going?” Sunday says.

Mia clears her throat. “They can’t get a helicopter or a car to us,” she says. “I’m gonna have to drive.”

“What?” Amir exclaims. “No, have you seen what’s going on out there? There’s parts of the road that are just, like —“

“I know.”

“So why don’t we wait for the firefighters?”

“‘Cos they’re not gonna make it in time!”

She shouts this without meaning to, and both Sunday and Amir shrink back.

“Listen,” Mia says. “I need you guys to just listen to me and do everything I say. Get your phones and your wallets, make sure you have ID on you.”

Amir’s brow knits. “Why?”

“In case something happens and they need to know who we are, or whatever, Amir! Get your shit and meet me outside the house in two minutes!” They don’t move, so she roars, “NOW!” and they scramble off the couch.

The two of them run upstairs while Mia heads for the front door, grabbing her black Birkin off of the table next to it and digging around inside for her wallet. She hesitates, then slings the whole bag over her shoulder. She knows she’s supposed to travel as light as possible, but it would be a shame to let a Birkin burn up. It had been a gift from Zayn and Harry on her last birthday.

She picks up the mask that she had left on the table, too, and stuffs it in the bag before she stumbles outside.

It’s horrendous. It’s like she’s on Mars. The air is thick and hot with a vile smell to it, and everything is blinding orange. She tears up so bad she can’t see for a moment, from the light and the smoke, then pulls some sunglasses out of her purse and shoves them on. She races toward the garage, slapping her hand against the secret biopanel on the outside wall.

The door feels like it takes eons to creak open and retract up. She stands there, swearing at it and chewing her thumbnail bloody. Finally, it lifts up high enough for her to duck under.

Mia races through the rows of luxury cars, the showroom lights blasting on overhead as she does, until finally she gets to Liam’s jacked-up behemoth of a Ford F-450. It’s so big and sturdy she can barely scramble up into the cab without a boost. Once she’s in, she feels safe for the first time in days.

“God, if you get us through this, I swear I’ll never make fun of Liam’s douchey cars again,” she mutters, pressing her hand to the dashboard.

The entire truck lights up and roars to life. The seat and mirrors immediately adjust to her height.

“DRIVER MIA TOMLINSON-MALIK IDENTIFIED,” the AI booms at her in defeating surround sound. It pronounces Malik wrong. “WELCOME BACK TO YOUR FORD EXPERIENCE.”

Mia winces. “Take the volume down by like, ten, please.”

“Volume adjusted,” the car says.

She hits the gas and maneuvers the car out, past all the sports cars and under the door, out onto the circular driveway.

“Extreme heat detected,” the car says. “Adjusting exterior for maximum insulation.”

There’s a _swhoop_ sound from all around her; Mia looks around in confusion, then opens the door and hops out. The truck has covered itself in armored paneling.

“Holy shit,” she says. “Nice, thanks.”

The car doesn’t answer, of course. She heads around the front of the car, stopping to wheeze for a moment when she gets a particularly bad breath of air.

Amir and Sunday are outside, masks on, looking to her — she beckons them, yelling, “Get in!”

Amir shouts something she can’t understand. Mia comes closer, shouting, “What?”

“Evan,” he yells back at her. “I can’t get him on the phone, and the rest of his family’s in St. Barth’s —“

“Fine, we’ll drive by his place, just _get in!_ ”

Amir races past her toward the truck, but Sunday stands frozen, looking stricken.

Mia takes a few more steps forward and grabs her hard by the arm. “Come on!”

“The house,” Sunday says. “What about the house? And all our stuff… my ribbons, my Polaroids…”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“What are talking about, it doesn’t matter?” she screams back. “It’s our _home!”_

Panicking, Mia tries to drag her forward, but she stands rigid, tearful. Not knowing what else to do, Mia slaps her — not hard, but it seems to jerk Sunday out of the state she’s in. She blinks, looking shocked.

“ _I’m_ your home,” Mia says, with such force that it empties her smoke-ravaged lungs and she has to stop to take a breath. “Amir’s your home, the dads and the boys are your home! Okay? This fucking building doesn’t matter, Sunday, I promise you! Get in the car!”

“Okay, okay —“

Mia grabs her arm and drags her along, helping her climb onto the running board (which is at least several feet in the air) and then shoving her up into the front passenger seat.

“My piano,” Amir keens pitifully from where he’s tucked himself in the backseat.

“You can buy a new piano, Amir, Jesus,” Mia snaps at him. She slams Sunday’s door shut, then heads around to the driver’s side and jumps in. She slaps her hand to the dashboard and says, “Transmit car’s location, please.”

“Location tracking for this trip has been activated for all associated drivers,” the car says.

“Turn all self-driving features off.”

“Warning: automated driving features include Ford’s collision prevention.”

“I know! Turn the self-driving off! _I’m_ in charge here, you dumbshit car!”

“Automated driving has been disabled.”

Mia turns the brights and hazards on, then fumblingly tosses her phone into Sunday’s lap. “Unmute us and talk to the dads for me?”

Sunday nods. “Got it.”

Mia drives as quickly as she can, considering she can only see about fifty feet ahead at any given time. Her heart is pounding so fast that she’s afraid she might have a panic attack — she’s had a couple in the past, usually before big games — but her adrenaline and her single minded mission keep her crystal clear and focused on the road. Trees on either side are engulfed in flame, in the process of burning or already hollowed out, wilted and blackened like burnt matches. Glowing headlights in front of and behind her dip in and out of view as the smoke around them alternately thins and thickens.

Next to her, Sunday gives their parents continual updates. “Um, yeah, we’re pulling onto Hayvenhurst. At least I’m pretty sure it’s Hayvenhurst. There’s a tree in the road, but Mia’s going around it… okay, we’re clear. Yeah, I love you guys too.” She puts the phone to her chest and says, “Amir, your dad wants you to know he loves you.”

“God, he thinks we’re gonna _die_ ,” Amir groans from the back, where he’s lying across the seats with his hoodie pulled over his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at the destruction around them.

“That’s exactly what I said,” Mia says, laughing sort of hysterically.

“ _Media vita in morte sumus_ ,” Amir mutters.

“Don’t you dare start speaking freaky Latin right now,” Mia threatens.

“Tell Dad I love him too,” he adds.

“He loves you too,” Sunday says into the phone.

“Where’s Zayn?” Mia says. She’s realized all of a sudden that she hasn’t heard from him since that weird phone call last night. He never responded to any of her group texts.

“Mia wants to know where Zayn is,” Sunday says. “Okay. Gotcha. Yeah, I… okay.” She puts the phone to her chest again. “He took a Xanax and went back to his room to pray for you. But he wanted you guys to know he loves you. And Harry’s apparently off talking to their tour staff about postponing their show… they were supposed to be going on in like an hour.”

Mia had totally forgotten about the Wembley concert, the time difference, everything. She doesn’t have time to react or respond to her father’s absence — they’ve reached the road into Evan’s neighborhood, and there’s a line of cars streaming out that she has to concentrate on maneuvering around. It’s a gated community, but the electric gate isn’t closing, it stays hanging open with no regard to who comes in or out. She thinks maybe someone did that on purpose to give residents more time to escape, but as she creeps along up the road, she realizes the lights are off in every single house. The power lines must be down over here.

She’s driven Amir here before, she used to take him over to Evan’s in high school when she had her license and he didn’t. So even in this orange, alien world, she can still pick out which sprawling mansion is his, and stop in front of it. Ash starts falling onto the car, and she turns on the windshield wipers.

There’s no sign of Evan. Mia lays into the horn, hard, over and over.

“If he doesn’t come out in two minutes, we have to go,” she says. “He probably already left, Meer.”

“I just have a bad feeling,” Amir pleads, his voice reedy with fear. “We can’t just _leave_ him, come on —“

They hear what sounds like an explosion nearby, and everyone freezes.

“What was that?” Sunday says, her dark eyes wide. “That sounded like a bomb.”

“Probably a tree falling,” Mia says, trying to keep them calm.

“No, a propane tank,” Amir mutters, in that annoying way of his where he can recall every fact he’s ever learned, no matter how long ago. “Propane tanks explode when they…”

He trails off, sitting up, and Mia follows his gaze. Evan is bolting out of the front door, holding a flashlight and waving them down. He doesn’t have a mask on; he chokes, then covers his face with the collar of his hoodie and keeps running.

Amir throws the door open for him and grabs his arm, dragging him into the back seat. Mia punches the gas, speeding back down the road.

Evan tries to choke something out, but dry heaves instead.

“Don’t, don’t talk,” Amir begs. In the rearview mirror, Mia sees Evan insistently shake his head.

“My phone died,” he wheezes. “The power went out in the middle of the night, I woke up and I couldn’t, like — I couldn’t call anyone, and almost all my neighbors already left —“ He stops to cough uncontrollably into his sleeve for a moment. “I — I was just waiting for the firefighters, my dad said last night he was going to send private ones, but they kept not showing up —“

“The roads are blocked,” Sunday says. “To everyone but first responders. They were never going to get here.”

“Thank you guys, seriously,” Evan wheezes. “Holy shit. I don’t even know what would have happened to me… it got so bad so fast.”

“‘Course, Evan,” Mia says. “You’re like family.”

They all go quiet as she navigates back out of the neighborhood. There’s only the sound of the car grinding as it tries to get traction on the ash-covered road, and Evan struggling to catch his breath.

“You guys should be covering your mouths,” he says, when he can finally get another word out. “The smoke is really bad.”

Sunday brings her sleeve to her mouth.

“Evan,” Amir says softly. “I wanted to, uh… I dunno if everything’s gonna be fine, but in case it’s not…”

Mia does her best not to listen. This sounds private.

“I wanted to tell you I love you,” he whispers. “I mean that I’m in… I’m in love with you… and I’m sorry things’ve been fucked up between us…”

Evan clears his throat. “Not your fault,” he whispers back, then coughs. “My fault.”

Tuning them out isn’t working. They’re talking so softly, but they’re _right_ there, so it just ends up sounding like on reality TV shows when people try to whisper in secret despite being mic’d up. Mia shoots a sideways glance at Sunday, who gives her an amused, conspiratorial look back. 

“It’s like, I thought things were going good, and then I went off to school and it’s like… I dunno. You totally changed up on me. I felt like I was just being so stupid and needy all the time. It really, um.” Amir breaks off, his voice breathy and hesitant. “It hurt.”

“I’m sorry... it’s just, like…” Evan sighs and coughs some more. “Lemme just —“ He spits into his sleeve. “Augh. Lemme, um, lemme talk for a minute,” he rasps, “‘cos I don’t know how much of my voice I have left…”

“Alright, alright.”

“Amir, I just, like…  I had to figure myself out, you know? I had to figure out what I didn’t want to do with my life.”

“I mean, yeah… but you _left_.” His voice cracks. “You just dipped on me.”

“ _You_ left,” Evan whispers. “You went to New York! Was I supposed to just follow you?”

“I had to go to school!”

“Still!”

“But I was still — I still wanted you to be in my life, I wanted to be together! I wanted you to come visit! But then you ran away to the woods, I couldn’t even _see_ you, how was I supposed to feel?”

Traffic accordions ahead of them again. Mia swears under her breath and downshifts into a lower gear, thrumming with anxiety.

“‘Cos that’s what the program is,” Evan’s saying. “It’s supposed to isolate you, reset how you think about yourself, and living in the world, and all that.” He coughs hard. “Look, I just felt really lost and weird. You were telling me about all this cool shit you were doing, and I just felt like we were on different planets, or something. I felt I was going in circles, and you were moving on. I needed _something.”_

Mia can’t help sympathizing. She related to her brother better when he was kind of lost after high school, but now he’s off at Juilliard being this beloved and successful musician again.

“I wasn’t moving on,” Amir whispers, sounding hurt. “I missed you. I thought about you all the time.”

“I didn’t know!”

“Fuck, Evan! How could you not know?”

“You never told me!”

“I was texting you constantly!” His voice catches. “I kept asking you to come see me, or if I could come see you! Why else would I do that?”

“Don’t cry, c’mon, I don’t want to make you cry...”

“I’m not crying,” Amir snaps.

“Look, I feel like shit about the whole thing,” Evan whispers. “I swear to God, I've been beating myself up about how this all went down for months now. All this morning, I just kept thinking, I’m gonna die here. He’s never gonna know how I really feel, he’s always going to think I just got weird for no reason —“

Amir laughs breathlessly.

“No, but seriously… I did feel like you wanted to be with somebody on your level... I felt like you were supposed to be with, like, the trombone guy.”

“But it sucked with him! We just argued all the time, it was never fun like it was with me and you. I don’t care what you do with your life, ‘cos I just really like being with you. Doing whatever. I just want to do whatever with you. Y’know?”

“Yeah, me too,” Evan says softly. “And, uh... I, y’know. I love you too.”

Amir lets out a sort of strangled laugh-sigh. “You could have said that back right away. You kinda left me with my dick in my hand.”

“You really thought I didn’t feel the same way?”

“I dunno! Maybe!”

Evan starts laughing wheezily. Mia finds herself smiling, even despite the ten-ton weight she feels pressing down on her heart.

Amir peeks up between the front seats. “Um… can you guys pretend you didn’t hear any of that?”

“Oh, then I probably should have taken your dad off speaker,” Sunday says, grinning.

“I put the phone down for a moment, don’t worry,” Louis’ voice rings out. “But what I heard was very sweet.”

“ _Dad_!”

“Not just me, Liam’s here too.”

“Hullooo,” Liam says.

“And Niall,” Niall says cheerfully.

There’s chuckling over the phone. They must be relieved to have a tension breaker. Mia is, too.

Up ahead, a flaming tree has fallen in the road. Mia floods with adrenaline and slams on the brakes, screeching to a halt, then looks around frantically. There’s no way around it — the road is lined by trees on either side, all in flames. Traffic slows and begins to pile up behind her.

“Hey,” she says, trying to sound relaxed. “If I have to drive over something that’s on fire —“

“You can’t get around it?” Liam asks.

“No!”

“Just gun it,” Louis says, his tone very different than it was a moment ago. “That car can take a beating. Just stomp on the gas.”

Now that they’re stopped, the heat is oppressive, pounding at them from every angle. Mia feels like she can barely breathe, and she can’t turn the A/C on because it would suck ash into the car.

For a moment she wants to be a little kid, to melt down, give up and beg someone else to take over. But she can’t. She cranks the truck into a higher gear, grips the hot steering wheel and says, “Hold on, guys,” then slams her foot on the accelerator.

They crunch over the branches, the entire car lurching and swaying. The tree bursts apart under her tires and makes a shower of sparks shoot up around them, licking the windows. Mia loses traction, and the steering wheel shakes violently in her hands as the car fishtails — she’s just about to full-out panic when the four-wheel drive kicks in and the car rights itself in the nick of time.

They continue on down the road, into the thick smoke, following the GPS route. She waits with her breath held for the tires to fall off, melted, but everything seems to be fine for now.

They’re almost to I-10. It’s 10:06 A.M., yet the sky above them is now pitch-black.

“We’re clear,” Sunday says softly.

Soft cheers come from the phone.

“Marvelous job, Mia,” Liam says. “Keep at it. Sunday, um, I just talked to your mum, she asked you text her once you get to the airport.”

“Sure,” Sunday says, sort of sourly.

“Okay. I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, Dad. You already said that.”

“I know.”

They fall into silence, then: the kids in the car, and the dads on the phone. Mia’s grateful for it. She needs to concentrate. In the backseat, Amir and Evan are huddled in each other’s arms like they’re waiting to die on the Titanic. Amir is holding a blanket over his mouth, and Evan is holding the sleeve of his hoodie to his own. She keeps catching glimpses of them in the rearview when she glances up at it, desperate to see the glaring lights of a firetruck or search and rescue, but all she sees through the back window is smoke and the intermittent headlights of the cars trailing along behind her.

She hears a loud creaking noise and then a walloping crash on the road behind them, suddenly, and Sunday screams, jerking in her seat. Mia’s whole body locks up with fear. “What? _What_?” She doesn’t dare check her mirrors.

Sunday is staring at the right side mirror. “Nothing,” she says, her face ashen. “Um. I saw, uh. I just saw a tree fall on a car behind us.”

“Holy shit,” Amir says. “Did it crush it?”

“I dunno. I couldn’t see, ‘cos the smoke…”

Mia kind of wishes she’d taken the phone off speaker to say that. “This car is really tough,” she says.

“Do you know how much a tree weighs?” Amir demands.

“Shut up,” she snaps. “Stay calm. Everyone keep each other calm. Alright?”

They all fall obediently quiet.

Once she’s made the perilous turn around the exit and onto the highway, she can see even less than before. They drive directly into a massive cloud of smoke that doesn’t seem to have an end. Mia downshifts and keeps her foot hesitantly on the gas, honking every few seconds in case there are drivers close by.

“Can you see?” Sunday says.

“I can see exactly what you can see,” Mia says testily. “I don’t have special driver vision.”

“Sorry. Stupid question.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mean to be a dick.” She never loses her patience with Sunday — everybody else, sure, but not Sunday.

Sunday laughs, though. “I know.”

Over speakerphone, someone clears his throat, but doesn’t say anything.

“Warning,” the car’s AI says, “excessive heat. Engine overheating imminent.”

“Fuck off,” Mia mutters. “Shut the fuck up.”

They emerge from the cloud into a horrifying scene: all around and above them, the hills of Los Angeles are ablaze with gleaming fire, pouring smoke onto the highway in random gusts. It looks like they’re in hell. A siren wails, and she glances over to see a group of fire trucks racing by in the other direction. There are a few dozen other cars heading south like they are, surrounding them on either side, and an SUV stopped on the side of the road up ahead.

“We’re on the ten, now,” Sunday says.

“We saw,” Louis says with extremely strained false cheer. “Good, all good. Making good progress.”

Mia squints as she gets closer to the SUV. There are three people standing next to it, shielding their faces from the smoke and gesturing desperately.

“Hang on,” Mia says, and she starts slowing down.

“‘Hang on’ what,” Amir says. “What are you doing?”

“Helping them,” Mia says, pulling the truck over beside the disabled car. Honks blare out from people behind her, and then they cut around her, giving her the finger as they do. She ignores them. “Open your door.”

“Mia, we don’t even —“

“ _Sadaqah_ ,” she says, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror to reassure him. He’s always been more afraid of strangers: more afraid of kidnappers, swarmings, harassment. “Open your door.”

Amir exhales, then brings his sleeve back to his mouth and shoves his door open. Heat and smoke rush into the car, making them all cough.

“Do you guys need a ride?” he calls to them.

The strangers, huddling against the smoke, make their way over to the open door. It looks to be a couple and a teenage girl, though they’re all so bundled up it’s hard to tell.

“Yes!” the woman shouts. Her voice is almost gone. “Please, please — our car broke down, they haven’t been able to get help to us yet, and no one’s stopping —“

“Alright, get in!” Mia shouts. “We’re heading south!”

The three of them climb into the backseat, cramming in beside Evan and Amir. Mia waits until they’re secure, then slams on the gas again, lurching forward.

“God, thank you so much,” the woman says. “Um, I’m Hannah, this is my husband Tom, and our daughter Petra… they can’t talk too well, they inhaled a lot of smoke…”

“Thank you,” Tom croaks, and Petra nods hard.

“Mims?” Louis’ voice says over speaker.

“Sorry,” she says. “I know you said not to stop.”

“No, I just wanted to say… good job.”

He sounds very proud. Mia starts getting choked up.

“Thanks,” she manages.

“This might sound weird, but you all look kind of familiar,” Hannah says. “Are we neighbors?”

“Do you get Rolling Stone?” Sunday says. “We were on the cover this winter.”

Leave it to Sunday to present their fame in the most cryptic way possible. They were on the cover, though, Mia keeps forgetting about that. It was a promotional thing for the band after they announced the 2036 reunion tour: a story called _1D, The Next Generation_ , with brief interviews from her, Amir and Sunday _._ But the photos were of all eight of them, including Niall’s little son Jamie, who they love but hardly ever see because Niall and Winnie insist on bringing him up “normal” in Ireland. The whole process was terrifically annoying, and the twins ended up breaking a tripod beyond repair, but the resulting photos were adorable. Mia keeps a print of one in her locker.

“Oh my God,” Hannah says, laughing and then coughing into her sleeve. “Of course! Aren’t you — you’re the One Direction kids?”

“Are you a fan?” Amir says, sounding amused with her.

“Oh, yeah, I was in high school when they were big… I even went to a concert, once.”

Petra lets out a coughing laugh. “So old, Mom,” she wheezes.

“Lovely to hear from a fan,” Liam’s voice crackles over speaker.

“Yeah, we have them on the phone, actually,” Mia says, easing up on the gas as the freeway dips downhill. “Three of them anyway.”

“Wow, this is so funny,” Hannah says. “Um, hi there! Your kids are wonderful, I can’t thank them enough.”

“Thank you love,” Louis says softly.

“How you holdin’ up, Mims?” Niall says. “And hello to our lovely fan as well.”

Hannah laughs.

“I’m fine,” Mia says. The biggest problem she’s currently having is that her hands are soaked with sweat from nerves and the heat, and she’s having a hard time gripping the wheel. “We’re getting close.”

“Just hang on, you’re doing so well,” Louis says gently.

Mia nods, her leg jumping. The sound of Louis’ voice keeps making her throat tighten up. She wants her dad so badly, she wants him to hug her tight and tell her everything’s going to be fine.

“How’s the knee, tiger?” Niall says.

She laughs. “Knee’s fine.”

“Please reduce external temperature,” the car says. “At current temperature, engine will overheat.”

Mia’s pulse quickens again. It’s fine, they only have about fifteen minutes left of driving, it’s fine.

The highway is mostly clear of the flaming debris that was strewn everywhere on the smaller roads, and she’s no longer hemmed in by rows of flaming trees. But the trees had insulated them by trapping the smoke and heat. Now, hot air is rushing over them in constant waves. It feels like they’re being broiled alive in the car, and her dashboard is lit up by bright red alerts and warning symbols.

“Are you two breathing any better?” Hannah whispers.

“Yeah,” Tom says hoarsely.

Suddenly the cars in front of them accordion up, all slamming on their brakes. Mia stomps on hers as fast as she can, but she clips the bumper of the car she’s behind. Everyone gasps, then goes quiet. Sunday drops her sleeve from her mouth and nose and looks over at her.

“What the fuck,” Mia exclaims.

“Everything okay?” Louis says.

“I just hit somebody, I couldn’t stop in time — it’s not bad, I just tapped them —“

Sunday, who’s taller, cranes her neck up and says, “There’s some big thing on fire in the road, I think everyone stopped to avoid it.”

Mia twists the steering wheel so she can pull into the left lane. The guy in front of her gets out of his BMW, though, and stands there gesturing at it and shouting. She opens her door and yells, “WHAT?”

He strides toward her through the smoke-filled air, even as cars are zipping dangerously by him. “I want your insurance information!” he shouts.

“We don’t have _time_!” Mia screams back. “Google me, you dumb prick!”

She slams her door shut, drags the wheel to the right, and zips around him on the shoulder, cutting neatly back into traffic and gunning it.

Everyone’s quiet for a moment, and then Amir chirps “Dumb prick!” in a perfect imitation of her, and they all laugh.

Mia allows herself a small smile. A dribble of sweat runs down her temple and over her cheek — she doesn’t dare let go of the wheel to brush it away.

“Mia always goes top rope,” Evan says.

“Oh, yeah —” Sunday turns around in her seat. “Guys, she _slapped_ me, earlier!”

“What!” Amir says, laughing.

“She froze up when we were leaving,” Mia quickly explains, because Liam is listening, and she can see Hannah’s raised eyebrows in the rearview. “I had to gently snap her out of it.”

Amir laughs harder. “You mean slap her out of it?”

“Oh crap,” Sunday says, looking at the phone in her hand. “Mia, your phone shut off. It says it got too hot…” She glances at her wrist. “And my watch is saying the same thing.”

Mia’s stomach lurches. “Okay,” she says calmly. “That's okay. The location tracking is on, they can still see where we are.”

“Right…”

They all go quiet again. Outside, there’s only the sound of wailing sirens and rushing wind. Sunday brings her sleeved elbow back up to her mouth.

 

*

 

Louis tries to call Mia back three times, then Sunday, then Amir, and can’t get any of them. The calls go right to voicemail. He gets up and starts anxiously pacing the hotel room, his hands laced at the back of his head.

“It’s fine,” Liam says. “They might be in a dead zone, or a cell tower might be down...” He points at the TV, which they have hooked up to his laptop to display the car’s movements in real-time. “They’re still moving, they’re almost to the roadblocks.”

Louis’ heart twists in his chest. ”I know,” he says. “I know, I know. I just liked hearing their voices.”

“Me too,” Liam says, his jaw tight. “I know.”

Niall looks sympathetically between them. He was so nervy earlier, he took a seat right on the coffee table, and he’s been sat there ever since. “Anyone want anythin’?” he offers. “A cuppa? Some of Zayn’s Xans?”

Louis laughs a hysterical little laugh. “No, mate, thank you. Where’s Harry?”

“Still working things out with Christine, I guess,” Liam says. “Lot of administrative things to take care of.”

“I mean, who can blame us for going on late?” Louis goes over to the minibar and bangs around, not even looking at what’s in it. He uncaps a Badoit and drinks some just to have something to do. “Seriously. We couldn’t possibly be doing a sound check right now.”

“No, that would be crazy,” Liam says. “We’ll get things rolling once they’re safe in the air, and no sooner.”

All day, Liam has kept talking as if nothing bad will happen, as if nothing bad could possibly happen. He doesn’t say if, he says once or when.

“I want to talk to Zayn,” Louis says, coming over to sit on the couch next to Liam, who wraps an arm around him. “I want to give him an update…”

Telling Zayn he couldn’t get help to the kids had been awful. He just nastily said, “Great. That’s fuckin’ great. Good job,” and then demanded Louis get away from him, which was the absolute most hurtful way he could have reacted. Louis pounded on his slammed hotel room door for a while before Liam came over and stopped him, gently took him aside, then knocked himself and said, “Zayn?”

Zayn let Liam in, bizarrely. Louis doesn’t even know the full extent of what they talked about. Liam only gave the headlines.

“He was pretty firm about not being bothered until they’re safe,” Liam says. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he took enough Xanax to just knock out and sleep through it.”

“I couldn’t,” Louis says. “God, I don’t understand that at all, I need to know what’s going on every second.”

Liam rubs his back hard. “It’s okay,” he says. “They’re past the most dangerous part.”

Niall nods hard to corroborate this.

“Actually, tea would be good, Niall, if you were gonna make some,” Louis says.

Niall bounces to his feet immediately and heads into the suite’s little kitchen.

Louis sinks back against the couch, and into the crook of Liam’s arm. “Thanks mate…”

“Absolutely no problem,” Niall says. “Payno, you too?”

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”

Louis watches Niall, his eyes bleary. The electric kettle starts heating up, and Niall leans against the chrome black counter, glancing down at his phone.

“Oh,” he says in a kind of strangled way. “So, my place in Simi’s burned down.”

“Noo, Niall,” Liam gasps. “I’m sorry.”

“Ahh, nah, come on,” Niall flaps his hand. “Only things. Can all be replaced.”

“I can’t believe how fast it got this bad,” Liam says. “And in the wet season, it’s insane.”

Louis exhales. “How is your ex not more worried about her daughter?” he says. “I’m sorry, I know this is like, not the time to be slagging ‘er off, but she isn’t even going to cut her vacation short?”

“If Sunday got hurt, she’d of course come back.”

“Oh, what a grand gesture!”

Liam strokes his hair. “Tommo, I get it, you’re worried and you want to yell at somebody… but I can’t defend Ceci, and I don’t want to. I haven’t been married to her for like seventeen years now.”

“I know,” Louis says, burying his face in his hands. “Sorry.”

 _Worry_ is so minimizing, it’s so much more than that. He’s been in agony, he feels that at any moment his chest might burst open and his heart fall out. Every second that goes by feels like an hour.

It was worse, earlier, when David’s grim texts kept arriving, when it finally sank in that the roadblocks had essentially stranded the kids alone in Calabasas while it rapidly burnt to the ground. It had taken everything in Louis not to start punching holes in the walls of the hotel, wailing like some woman in a Greek tragedy. Niall offered him a Guinness to calm him, and the eight ounces of it he pounded quickly curdled in his empty stomach — he ended up puking foam into the bathroom sink. (Niall asked him, “Not pregnant, are ya?” which was such an absurd notion at such an unwelcome time that Louis had snapped at him, “I’m forty-four years old with me tubes tied, fucking numpty!” Niall put his hands in the air and said, “Sorry! You’ve just been pregnant a lot!” at which Liam let out a strangled snort.)

Liam keeps stroking Louis.

“Oh no,” Louis says in a panic, abruptly sitting up. “I forgot to tell Sunday I love her.”

“I told her for both of us, sweetheart.”

“Right. Right… did I tell Amir?”

“Yeah love,” Liam says, patting his back. “Don’t you remember?”

“No. Nothing’s sticking in me ‘ead right now.”

The kettle goes off, and Niall sets about fixing them some tea. Louis closes his eyes; he can hear the comforting sounds of spoons clicking on mugs and containers being opened, milk being poured.

He wants Zayn’s company so desperately right now, but he’ll just get angry if Louis bothers him again before he has concrete news. He has his own coping mechanisms. There’s some wriggly thing in Louis’ gut, though, that keeps telling him to check on his ex-husband. He resists it, thinking of all the unpleasant meaning that would be wrapped up in that act — codependency, selfishness, continuing to step on Harry’s toes.

Shouldn’t Harry be waiting with him, though, instead of off handling tour things? Somebody has to take care of that shit, he supposes, but still.

Distantly, he registers the possibility that Zayn rejected Harry’s presence, too. That would be serious cause for concern, if he did.

Niall comes over and hands them both mugs of tea, which they accept gratefully.

“I really think they’re safe, now,” Liam says. “They’re on the highway…”

Louis’ jaw locks, and his eyes heat up. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

Liam and Niall chorus exclamations of his name, and Niall comes over so he can crush them both in a hug.

“No,” Liam whispers. “I thought you were right. So did Zayn. ‘Cos if either of us had really thought you were off your nut, we could’ve overruled you at any time.”

“Would you have? Really? You both listen to me too much!”

“Louis, please don’t disrespect me like that. I’ve never, in our marriage or our professional partnership, let you do anything I didn’t agree with or where I didn’t at least agree with your reasons. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen… we all should’ve been more cautious, not been rich idiots who relied on our money over our common sense to protect our kids. All I can say is thank God they’re gonna be okay.”

“They aren’t yet, I can’t believe they’re okay ‘til they touch down in London and I can see them.”

Niall strokes Louis’ back.

“I know what you’re feeling,” Liam whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Tommo, God, of course…” Liam lays his hand on Louis’ lap, and Louis takes it in his own. Liam’s palms are soaked, and he’s trembling.

“Oh, love,” Louis murmurs, squeezing him tight.

“I’m just trying to be tough for you, is all,” Liam says, laughing shakily. “It working?”

“Yeah.” Louis keeps holding his hand, even though it’s clammy. “It is.”

 

*

 

Harry’s returned to them by the time David calls, fifteen minutes later. Louis scrambles for the phone like it’s a live grenade, then slams it onto the coffee table and puts it on speaker. They all huddle around it, their faces taut.

“Louis,” David says in his thick accent, “I have the kids. They’re alright. They’re in the Humvee, and we are on our way to the airport.”

Everyone sighs in relief.

“Thank God,” Louis breathes, so lightened that he feels as if his soul is rising to the top of his body like foam. Liam sags his entire weight against him, resting his head on Louis’ shoulder and reaching up to stroke his back. “Thank you, mate.”

“You’re welcome. Listen, I just want to tell you, we had to have Mia evaluated by the EMS. She has a bad cough and things, since she wasn’t able to cover her mouth like the others, in the car. But they gave her some oxygen, and she’s breathing well now. And they will be traveling with Boris, who has paramedic training, just in case.”

“Hi Dad,” they hear a hoarse voice say in the background.

“She insisted on riding up front with me,” David says, sounding amused. “You’re on the speakerphone.”

“Hi sweetheart,” Louis says, comforted by the sound of her voice. “You did such a good job, love, I’m so proud of you. Thank you.”

“Sure,” she croaks.

“The other three are in the back,” David says. “And we took the family they found to a medical tent. They should be fine.”

“Good.”

“Please let us know when you get to the airport,” Harry says. “My pilot’s waiting and ready to take off as soon as you are.”

“Yes, I’ve been in touch with him. Thank you, Mr. Styles.”

“No problem.”

“Mia?” Liam says. “Let us know when you’re safely in the air, please.”

“I will,” Mia promises.

“Alright. See you soon,” Louis says.

“Bye, Dad.”

“Bye sweets.”

Once they’ve hung up, Louis rubs his hand over his face, trembly with relief. “I’ll go tell Zayn,” he says.

Harry nods. “He asked to hear any news straight from you,” he says in a clipped tone. “Good or bad. He didn’t want to hear it from anyone else.”

“Is that true?” Louis says to Liam, who nods.

Harry gets to his feet, his face impassive. “I’ll update Christine. We should be on schedule to only go on an hour late, if we can hurry through soundcheck and wardrobe.”

“Harry,” Louis says, but he’s already heading for the door, his strides long and decisive.

The door shuts behind him. Louis sighs and gets up, too.

“Not your fault,” Niall says to him.

“No, it’s Zayn’s,” Louis says. “Wish he wouldn’t put me between them like that.”

“I don’t think he’s being too unreasonable,” Liam says. “They’re your kids together.”

“But Harry’s his husband.”

“So?”

“If something happened to Sunday, would you want to hear it from me or Ceci?”

“That’s a shit comparison,” Liam says. “I don’t even want to hear _good_ news from Ceci.”

This gets a big laugh from Louis and Niall. It feels good to laugh.

“Go,” Liam says, patting him on the thigh. “Go on, go talk to him so he’ll be out of his funk and we can start getting into the performance mindset.”

Louis clenches and unclenches his fists, then nods and says, “Alright.”

Really he’s just afraid of being yelled at again, of facing down Zayn’s withering contempt. The walk down the gilded hallway feels long, very long.

Louis knocks. No response.

“Zayn?” he calls. “I’ve got good news… Zayn…”

Silence. The anxiety in Louis that had been quelled rises up again, lurching into his stomach. He pounds harder.

He hears footsteps and takes a step back. Zayn opens the door.

He looks terrible: a gaunt, puffy look to him, hunched posture. Louis can’t help being reminded of the night that Zayn came home and tearfully told him he’d cheated on him.

“The kids’re okay,” Louis says. He tries to meet Zayn’s eyes, but Zayn keeps ducking his gaze. “They’re okay, they're with David now. They should be at LAX in a few minutes.”

Zayn sighs heavily and wraps Louis up in his arms, holding him tight. “Thank God.”

“I’m sorry, mate… you were right, we should have taken them out of there sooner...”

Zayn rubs his back. “Um,” he says shakily. “Can you come in? I need to talk to you.”

“What?”

“Just c’mere.”

“Zayn —“

Zayn pulls back from him, and Louis is struck by an avalanche of sinister familiarity. The bleary eyes, the guilt on his face, the smell of alcohol on his breath.

The world falls out from under him for the second time that day. “No,” he exclaims. “No, no, tell me you didn’t —“

“Just come in,” Zayn says, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him into the room.

It’s dark in here, very dark, the curtains all pulled shut and the lights off. The bathroom light is on, though — Louis glances through the ajar door as he’s pulled along and sees what looks like the entire contents of the minibar lined up on the sink, all completely empty as if they’ve been poured out.

Zayn leads Louis to his and Harry’s bed, which is rumpled and in disarray. A prescription bottle sits on the left bedside table, full of small yellow pills. Xanax.

He sits down on the edge of it, hands laced together, not looking at Louis. He doesn’t speak. For a moment Louis just stands there, buzzing with apprehension and sick anxiety.

“You drank?” he says in disbelief.

Zayn nods slowly.

“You’ve been sober for sixteen years!”

“Hang on,” Zayn mutters. “Just hold on. Before you get after me like this. Please can you just be, like…”

“Be what?”

“Just be nice to me.”

“But what _happened?”_

Zayn inhales, still looking down at his hands, twirling his wedding band. He shakes his head. “I drank.”

“But why?”

Zayn is silent, so Louis sits down next to him. He reaches up hesitantly, then strokes his hair.

“I just couldn’t stand the waiting,” Zayn says throatily. “I’m sorry. It’s weak, I know.”

“No, mate...”

“I took a Xan, and another, and it just wasn’t workin’... edge just wasn’t comin’ off... I didn’t want to be awake anymore, I didn’t want to be conscious. So I drank like half a bottle of wine, and I passed out.”

Louis sits there, wrestling with this. He doesn’t want to be angry, but he is. He can’t help it. This is just the sort of thing Zayn would do — they finally get the five of them all on good terms, on tour together, healed, and he has to flame out in the most spectacular way possible, careening out of the sky like a shot-down airplane, possibly taking the whole tour and years of planning along with him.

“It’s okay,” he finally says. “It’s fine, it’s gonna be fine. We’ll just take it one day at a time. Whatever you have to do right now, get to a meeting, or whatever…”

Zayn leans forward, head in his hands. “This is so fucking embarrassing… you’re the only person I wanted to even see.”

“Christ, why?”

“‘Cos we’ve been through this shit together before, you won’t get that horrified look like I’m ruining your life…”

“You have to talk to Harry, though. You know that.”

“I don’t want to, I don’t, God…”

“Zayn… c’mere, hey. C’mere, gimme a hug.”

Zayn doesn’t move, so Louis wraps him up in his arms again, cradling him close.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s fine. You didn’t ruin anythin’, you just had one little slip, yeah? Our kids are okay, we’re all gonna be okay. You’ve got Harry with you, you’ve got us. Nobody’s gonna let this turn into a bender. Nobody’s gonna let you fall off the face of the earth.”

Zayn reaches up and squeezes the back of Louis’ shirt hard in his hand.

Louis flashes back to the tour Zayn did when their kids were very little, how his anxiety was off the charts, how he was drinking so much he could have died.

“We’ll cancel the show,” Louis says decisively.

“No. Seriously, I don’t want you to.”

“Zayn, we can’t possibly go on with everything that’s happened. It’s fine, seriously. Everyone will understand.”

“It’s not that.” Zayn draws back. “If I like, let myself get sucked back in this… this like, shame spiral, where I think nothing I do matters ‘cos I’ve already fucked everything up — it’s gonna be bad. It’s gonna get really bad. Please let me stick to my obligations, alright? I’m dead serious. I’ll go on.”

Louis studies him. “We have to talk to the rest of them,” he says. “Let them know…”

Zayn’s eyes flicker with wariness. “Right. Could you, uh… could you do that for me?”

“Zayn,” he says, incredulous. “No, I can’t. Tell _Harry_ for you?”

“Please. I can’t, I can’t be the one to say it. I just can’t do it.”

“You have to!”

“I can’t face him,” he pleads. “I just need you to do this for me, I’ll handle the fallout, I promise, I just need you to break the news —“

“You coward,” Louis says, feeling heartsick. “Come on.”

Zayn’s face stiffens so thoroughly it’s as if he’s turned to stone. “Don’t call me that.”

“What are you, then, huh?”

“I’m a sick person asking you for help. Just one thing. Just tell him and send him in, you don’t even have to have a talk about it, I just want him to know before he comes in —“

“What are you so afraid of? He loves you.”

Zayn rubs his hands together, shaking his head. He opens and then closes his mouth, making only a soft sound of helplessness.

“Fine,” Louis says, standing. “I — _fine_. I’ll go.”

“Thanks,” he says, his posture sagging with relief. “Really, Louis, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Your husband’s gonna shit kittens.”

“That’s fine. I’ll deal with it.”

Louis gives Zayn a squeeze on the shoulder. “It’ll be alright,” he says.

Zayn nods, looking as if he doesn’t quite believe him.

 

*

 

Everyone looks up when Louis comes back in.

He lingers in the entryway for a moment, his hands in his pockets. Liam’s brow furrows. He knows Louis well enough to know something is wrong — he has that look on his face like he badly needs a cigarette.

“Hey,” Liam calls, and Louis briefly meets his eyes, then walks past the little sitting room and into the bedroom, where the three of them gathered to watch TV coverage of the wildfires.

“Is Harry back?” Louis says in a quiet voice.

“Yeah,” Harry calls from the bathroom. “Just washing my face, what’s up?”

Louis looks nauseous. “I have to tell you something,” he calls back.

Liam exchanges an alarmed look with Niall. “Is Zayn alright?”

Louis nods. “He’s okay.”

Harry steps out out of the toilet, arching an eyebrow. Louis darts his eyes away, looking down at the carpet and rubbing his hands together.

“He relapsed, a bit,” Louis says. “He drank.”

All the air goes out of Niall in a sort of hushed _nooo_ , and Liam’s head begins to spin. That’s not even in the ballpark of the things he thought Louis might say. Zayn has been sober for what, fifteen years? Sixteen? He looks to Harry, whose face has gone ashen.

“What are you talking about?” Harry says in a low voice.

“What I said,” Louis says. He lifts his gaze, but doesn’t look at Harry; he looks at Liam. Liam gazes back at him, for once completely unsure of what to say. This is uncharted territory for everyone but Louis. None of the rest of them were in Zayn’s life when he was battling this, not even speaking to him, much less married to him and raising children with him.

But now Harry is being thrust into that role, into this long-ago echo.

“When?” Harry says, as if he’s grasping for handholds.

Louis shrugs. “Maybe an hour and a half ago… after we found out the kids would need to evacuate themselves.”

“How much did he drink?”

“Not much. Like half a bottle of wine after he took the Xanax, then he passed out. He basically said the whole point was to pass out.”

“He told you all this?” Harry says, even more slowly than usual, stalking toward Louis like a jaguar.

Louis stiffens up and stares him down. “We talked.”

“He told you he drank and your reaction was to hang around for a chat instead of coming to get me straight away?”

“No. I told him he had to talk to you, he kept stalling.”

The energy between Harry and Louis isn’t good. Louis is defensive, and Harry is blazing-eyed, his spine rod-straight, crackling with scorned fury all over.

“You were over there a while though, weren’t you?” Harry says quietly. “What were you talking about?”

“Just about what happened.”

“And where is he?”

“In your room, mate.”

“I mean, why are you here telling me this? Why isn’t he?”

Louis struggles. “He sent me.”

Harry tilts his head. “He _sent_ you?”

“Fucking Christ,” Louis says, clearly at the end of his patience. “I knew this would happen. I told him not to put me in the fuckin’ middle of this.”

“Then why didn’t you leave and come get me the second he told you he drank?”

“‘Cos it was my instinct to stay there a moment and comfort him!”

“You don’t comfort him!” Harry roars. “I comfort him! That’s my job!”

“Oh, get the fuck over yourself!” Louis shouts back. “You aren’t the only person on earth he can confide in!”

“Don’t twist this to make yourself sound good!”

“I’m not! I’m stating the facts!”

Liam hears distant shouting outside the window. It’s been intermittent all day, as their fans have been gathering outside — he says, “Hey, lads, let’s just take a step back,” in a soothing voice before going over to peek out the curtain.

There are only about a hundred people pressed up against the fence, and they don’t look like trouble, but they do look like they aren’t going anywhere for a while. Liam straightens up and turns back around.

“You have got to fuckin’ let go of this,” Louis says. “If you’re gonna be there for him during this, you are gonna have to get over being threatened by just the _memory_ of me, mate —“

“The memory of you?” Harry says, scoffing. “You’re right fucking here. Can’t seem to get rid of you, actually.”

“That’s nice,” Louis says in a small voice. “Cheers. I meant the fact that me and him were married.”

“Guys,” Niall says, putting a hand up. “We don’t have to be doin’ this right now.”

They both ignore him.

“I know exactly what you meant,” Harry says. “That’s what I meant as well. You’ve been intruding on my relationship with him since day one, Louis. Always this shit about you, how you felt, what you’d done for him, like I was some interloper. Even now, you’re still making me feel like an interloper! He’s _my_ husband!”

“You can fuckin’ ‘ave him!” Louis screams back, getting in Harry’s face. Harry recoils from him. “God, he’s yours, he always has been! But you know what, you’ve never really dealt with this before, and the fact is you don’t know how! So put your own insecurities aside for a second!”

“Please, you have no idea, you have no idea what me and him have been through together, don’t pretend you do —“

“Boys,” Liam says loudly, but they’re still not listening.

“You’ve never had him off the wagon,” Louis snaps, “so good luck. You might actually have to put your precious career aside a minute and make a couple sacrifices, sorry to say.”

Harry’s face gets feral, his nostrils flaring and lip curling back to expose his gleaming canines. “Just stop,” he spits. “Stop acting like he’s yours, or he’s yours to fix. Grow up, get it through your thick head that it’s not your place, and quit projecting your fucking daddy on him!”

At this, Liam’s heart plummets. The mood in the room sours so quickly it’s as if someone’s eviscerated a skunk.

Louis’ face barely changes, but his eyes shutter completely, and then his arms shoot out from his sides and he shoves Harry. Not too hard — Harry only stumbles a bit, but looks even more hurt than Louis, like he can’t imagine a world where Louis would put his hands on him. His brow creases, and he shoves back.

Louis staggers and falls, crashing into the wall behind him. Liam lunges forward, but Louis is already rolling nimbly to to his feet, shouting, “Oh, you want it, you prissy little nancy boy? You finally wanna do this?”

He’s up and drawing a hand back as if to whack Harry when Harry lands a stinging backhanded slap on his face. Liam’s heart drops sickeningly into his gut. Louis reels, roars in anger and punches Harry hard in the mouth. Harry cries out, clutching his face, but doesn’t go down.

“WHOA,” Liam shouts, launching himself in between them, adrenaline thundering in his veins. “Stop it! Stop! This isn’t worth it, come on!”

He restrains Harry, even though he’s gone limp — it’s just his natural impulse to protect Louis. But Louis jumps on Liam like an enraged cougar, seizing him by the back of the shirt and screaming for him to get out of the way.

“ _No_ ,” Liam barks.

“Stop,” Harry says weakly. “Louis, it’s over, don’t be an idiot.”

“Don’t start shit you can’t finish!” Louis shouts at him over Liam’s shoulder, right in his ear.

Liam winces. He looks over at Niall, who’s wearing an ashen face of horror; he looks back at Liam, aghast, then takes a seat on the edge of the bed as if he isn’t sure what else to do.

“Liam, let go of me,” Harry says testily.

Liam drops his wrists. “Sorry, mate, but I can’t — you understand,” he says. “He’s my husband.”

“He _punched_ me,” Harry spits, then massages his jaw. “He punched me in the face!”

“Not as hard as I fuckin’ should have,” Louis yells. “You slapped me! I’m bleedin’!”

Liam turns to face him and sees that he is in fact bleeding from a gash on his cheek, scored onto him by one of those big rings Harry wears. Probably from his engagement ring, as a matter of fact. He’s struck by a lurch of protective tenderness, and reaches up to wipe the blood from Louis’ face with his thumb.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs. “What’s going on with you? Come on…”

Louis’ face crumples, then, tears filling his eyes. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck — Harry, I’m so sorry, mate. God. It’s just been such a lousy day, you know?”

Harry moves away, over toward the bed, and sits a few feet down from Niall. He looks suddenly devastated, too.

“That was so stupid,” he murmurs, and laughs ruefully.

“Not our finest moment as a band, I’ll tell you that,” Niall says, arms folded across his chest and not looking at anyone in particular.

Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Louis,” he says. “I was out of line, I didn’t mean any of that… let’s just forget it, please.”

His speech is even more mumbled than usual, like he’s developing a fat lip where Louis hit him. Great. Now if they can even go on tonight, Zayn’s going to be a mess and Louis and Harry are going to have very obviously gotten in a fistfight. Liam can just picture the overwrought headlines now. And the thing is, they won’t even be that overwrought. They’ll probably be verging on accurate.

“I’m happy to,” Louis says.

Liam loudly claps his hands together, getting everyone’s attention. “Are you both okay?” he says, taking charge of the situation. “You need anything? Aspirin, arnica?”

Harry nods. “I’ll take some arnica.”

“Ibuprofen would help the swelling.”

“That too, yeah.”

Liam turns to Louis, who has sat down on the floor and is smoking a cigarette he seems to have produced from thin air.

“‘M fine,” he mutters. His cheek is still bleeding freely.

“Oh, are you, then?” Niall demands. “Good, so can you all quit acting like teenagers for once?”

Everyone turns to him in surprise. His arms are tighter across his chest, and a jaw in his muscle is jumping.

“Niall,” Louis says in hurt surprise.

“Don’t Niall me,” Niall says evenly. “The two of _you_ are sober, right? ‘Cos that was some real cokehead behavior right there.”

“Hey,” Harry snaps, his eyes glittering. “I’m completely sober, I’m just fucking upset.”

“We all are,” Louis adds.

“I get that, but this is wearing on me, lads,” Niall says. “I just — I don’t even want to do a tour the five of us with you four doin’ what you always do. I’ll just be on my way, and you can feel free to burn the hotel to the ground or w’ever y’like.”

Liam puts his hands up. “Why am I being lumped in, now?”

“‘Cos you slept with Louis when he was pregnant with Zayn’s kid!”

Heat rises to Liam’s cheeks. “That was twenty years ago!”

Niall isn’t having it, though — he’s in one of his rare stern moods. “Somethin’ on that level counts for about fifty years worth of band drama.”

“I’m sure we’re all over _that,_ ” Harry says, wincing and touching his fingers to his jaw as he does.

“That’s not the point,” Niall says. “It’s this secondary school bullshit. This _Skins_ shit. I’m sick of it, already. Tighten up.”

“I’m so sorry we can’t all be Mr No Drama Whatsoever,” Louis says, with some bite in his voice. He’s clearly hurt; Niall never gets upset with him, never.

“Christ, Tommo, I’m not even asking for no drama, I’m asking for no fistfights two hours before we play our first ever actual reunion concert,” Niall says. “Is that unreasonable?”

“No, it’s not,” Harry murmurs.

“Oh, you kiss his arse as soon as it’s just me bein’ slagged off, huh?” Louis snaps.

Harry fixes him with an owlish look. “Louis, get over yourself.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll come over there and slap you again.”

Louis is quiet for a moment, then starts chuckling; a second later Harry joins in, and before long they’re both in absolute hysterics.

Liam and Niall stare at each other. Niall mouths _the fuck?_ and Liam shakes his head, nonplussed.

“Just fuckin’ slaps me,” Louis wheezes. “Like ‘e’s some pimp.”

Harry chokes out something barely intelligible that just makes them laugh harder. Finally they begin to wind down, wiping their eyes.

“You know,” Harry says, sniffling, “I think I’ve maybe wanted to whack you for a really long time.”

“Me too,” Louis says with a grin. “Don’t you feel better now?”

“I honestly do.” He’s smiling too.

“Well,” Liam says cautiously, relieved by the sudden peace but afraid to break it. He squats on the floor to rummage in his bag, fetching the arnica and ibuprofen out of a spare pocket, then brings them both to Harry along with a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” Harry says, taking them. “Er… can I say something that’s sort of morbidly funny, do we mind?”

“Out with it,” Louis says immediately.

“I had to have a little row with Christine to swap Fireproof off the setlist,” Harry says. “Took her about ten minutes to catch on why that might be inappropriate.”

They all laugh in a strangled way, and Louis buries his face in his hands. “Christ,” he groans.

“What’d you replace it with?” Niall says.

“Little White Lies.”

“Little White Lies?” Liam says. “First line, _if this room was burning?”_

Harry’s face drops. “Shit.”

“And that’s _your_ verse, Harry!”

“Well, why’ve you two put fire metaphors in every song?” he exclaims.

Louis catches Niall’s eye, and they wheeze together with more inappropriate laughter.

There’s a knock at the door, then, and the sound of a key card sliding in. It opens to reveal Zayn, looking wearied, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He walks down the little hall into the bedroom and looks around at them all, bemused.

“‘S’goin’ on here?” he says, then squints at Louis. “You _bleedin’_?”

Harry gets to his feet, clearing his throat. “Let’s go talk,” he says.

Zayn nods. “Alright.”

Harry heads for the door, all awkward tension in his shoulders. He brushes past Zayn and heads out into the hall; Zayn pauses for a moment, looking hurt, then turns and follows him out.

Once the door is closed, Liam sucks air through his teeth. “Brrrr.”

“Sort of get why Zayn didn’t want to tell him first,” Louis mutters.

Niall makes a ‘nnnnn’ noise.

“What?”

“That shit’s exactly what he was talking about,” Niall says. “It’s between them. It’s married people shit. I’d be up a tree if Winnie had something like that going on and her ex-husband was the one she was confidin’ in and not me.”

“Don’t blame me!” Louis exclaims. “Blame Zayn!”

“You enable him, a bit.”

“I do not! I tell him when he’s out of order!”

“Not to his face you don’t,” Niall says gently.

“Niall! Come on, what have I done to make you so cross with me?”

“Nothing! I’m just dealing out some honesty today, is all, I’m not meaning to direct it specifically at you!”

Liam studiously avoids eye contact with both of them. He goes into the little kitchenette and starts fixing himself another cup of tea.

“Look, the shit Harry said was out of line,” Louis says, sounding surly. “Bringing up — y’know.”

“Yeah, no, I agree,” Niall says. “He forgot himself.”

“It was a cheap shot,” Liam agrees.

“It’s not even what he said, either.” Louis gets up from the floor. The bleeding on his cheek has stopped, thankfully. “It’s the fuckin’ — I’d told Zayn in confidence something that me therapist said to me, years ago, and Harry repeated it verbatim, which means fucking Zayn told him. So I’m angry at both of ‘em.”

With an air of finality, like this was his closing argument, he goes over and sits next to Niall on the bed.

“You and I talk about Zayn,” Liam points out.

“Right, but that would be like me telling you something Zayn told me in confidence, and you spitting it back in his face during an argument,” Louis says.

“Which I think has literally happened before, years back.”

Louis rolls his eyes and waves his cigarette. “Whatever, it wasn’t when the five of us were on fuckin’ tour together, was it?”

“No, I’ll grant you that. This was all terrible timing. I’m just saying — Harry went off the rails, admittedly, but I do understand, personally, that it’s frustrating to be in this with you two sometimes.”

“It’s frustrating to be my spouse? Whose side are you on, Liam? Zayn’s, Harry’s, anyone’s but mine, apparently!”

“No! God!” Liam runs his hands through his hair, fucking it up. “Louis, no, you know I’m always on your side, _always_. But you know what I mean.”

“I don’t, honestly,” Louis says, looking betrayed. “I don’t understand why I’m the fucking monster here ‘cos Zayn forced me in the middle of things yet again. ‘Cos I was the one who nursed him through this way back when, when I had two little kids to worry about or even when I was pregnant, and he was falling down the fucking stairs drunk and ditching tours drunk and screaming at me and lying to me and cheating on me drunk!” His voice rises to a thundering pitch, and both Liam and Niall shrink from him. “So don’t blame this on me! I spent all that time taking care of him, and even now when he puts me in the position of still havin’ to do it, I’m the bad guy? I’m this meddling arrogant cunt who can’t let his ex go? No, he’s fucking gone, boys, I let him go before I even divorced ‘im!”

“Look,” Liam says, putting his hands up, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to put all of this on you. It’s just I feel shitty being angry with Zayn in this situation.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis says. “What a great excuse he’s got, huh?”

They all sit there with that for a moment. Liam doesn’t want to say anything to set him off again, and he seems to put his foot in his mouth every time he opens it.

“I’m sorry, Lou,” Niall says. “It was me was being the twat, before, and I don’t think it helped anything.”

Louis laughs. “I’ll find a way to forgive you. Honestly, I’d be a lot more sick of our shit if I were you.”

“Seriously,” Liam adds. “You’ve been patient for years, Niall, don’t feel bad about losing your temper once.”

Niall rubs his hands together, looking morose. He’s still wearing his glasses from when he was texting Michael and Ashton earlier, telling them they’re going to need to go on later and possibly play a longer opener, too. “Thought we could have a nice reunion, is all.”

Louis shrugs. “It’s not your fault, Nialler.”

“It is, though. This whole thing was my idea, remember? Bringing Zayn back? Dunno what I was thinkin’, I must’ve had some sort of aneurysm.”

“There was no reason to expect this’d happen,” Louis says. “He’s done such a good job staying sober for so long, there’s no reason to think he’d break it.”

“Except he hates touring,” Niall points out.

“But he _wanted_ to do this,” Liam says. “We made it as easy on him as humanly possible, it’s such a small, short tour, and all five of us pulling our weight, not him as a solo artist. Look, we had no idea this wildfire would do what it did. I think we’re being way too hard on ourselves and on each other, yeah? If we just don’t panic, and we go forward with, y’know, patience and understanding, I really think everything’s gonna be okay.”

Louis nods. “It’s just been such a long day,” he says, and laughs.

“Is the concert off, then?” Liam says. “Sort of seems like it must be, right?”

“He actually doesn’t want to cancel,” Louis says. “But I dunno. We’ll see what he says to Harry, ‘ey?” He reaches up and swipes at his cheek.

Liam goes into the bathroom, then and fetches the first aid kit, then comes over to him, tilting up the lamp that’s on their bedside table so it illuminates Louis’ face.

“Wish you’d sit, Payno,” Louis murmurs. “You’re making me nervous with all this fidgeting.”

“Can’t, sorry.” He gets out some gauze and wets it with antibacterial rinse to start dabbing the small gash on his cheek.

Louis winces, but stays still for him as he wipes the blood away, smoke from his cigarette wafting into the air. He gives Liam one of his playfully wry smiles, and Liam smiles back, as unable to resist him as he always has been.

“Fu-uck, Harry,” he mutters as he works. “I’m cross at him, I really am. That big bloody diamond he’s got on, and he _backhands_ you?”

“Oh, it’s alright, love,” Louis says with a twinkle in his eye. “I goaded him, I wanted him to smack me. I think the two of us just had to get that out of our systems. We’ll be alright now.”

Liam dabs antibiotic ointment into his scratch with a Q-tip. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks for breaking things up, though.”

“Well, I know how you are,” Liam murmurs. “Can’t not finish a fight.”

“Dishonorable not to. Hey, lot of slapping going on today, isn’t there?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Sunday said Mims slapped her to snap her out of shock, earlier.”

“Ohh, right…”

“Gonna have to give you a good slap in the balls on stage tonight, Payno, make it an even three.”

Niall chuckles.

“But three isn’t even,” Liam says in a plea for clemency.

“You’re right,” Louis says, grinning fiendishly. “I’ll hit you twice, make it four.”

“Now how are you setting a good example for our boys? They’re going to grow up and hit their husbands in the bollocks like that’s normal behavior.”

“Aw, hey, maybe they’ll marry girls instead.”

 

*

 

Zayn hovers hesitantly as Harry goes over and sits down on their bed. He flicks the light on so his husband is no longer bathed in eerie darkness.

Lit up, Harry’s face reveals a fat lower lip and the early signs of a bruise where his cheek meets his jaw.

“The fuck,” Zayn exclaims. “What happened to your face?”

Harry pats the bed next to him. Zayn comes over and sits down, tentative, gently brushing his thigh with his own.

“Louis and I got in a little fight,” he says in his low, slow voice.

“ _What?_ What d’you mean, a fight?”

Harry fixes him with a look. Zayn always squirms under his gaze when he’s angry, always wants to look away. He can’t even stand it when Marlena (who’s inherited nearly everything of Harry’s, especially his eyes) looks at him the same way, though she’s never wearing this expression of spousal reproach, this exhausted _why are you doing this to me_ face.

“Why would you not come get me?” he says, sounding bereft. “Before you drank, even. Before it got that bad. I would’ve taken care of you. I would’ve found a way to keep you calm while we waited. Why’d you — why’d you push me away?”

“Harry,” Zayn says, aching.

“No, please tell me,” he cries. “Please explain. I know things haven’t been great between us lately, I know you’ve been depressed again, but I thought we were just waiting it out… it happens sometimes, this, I didn’t think it was serious —“

“It’s not serious —“

“Then why are you pushing me away so hard? Why’d you drink?”

“I’m not,” Zayn says, feeling like they’re careening wildly without brakes. He grabs Harry by the wrist. “I’m not. I swear. I just went to a bad place this afternoon. I didn’t want to be around anyone if I got — if the news was bad. Not even you.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I was just in a really bad place.”

“Not too bad to invite Louis in,” Harry says tartly.

“He came to me, not the other way around. He told me the kids were alright, that changed things.”

“But then you let him in. You didn’t tell him to go fetch me. You didn’t call me.”

“I — yeah. I wanted to talk to him.”

“ _Why?_ Why not me?”

Zayn struggles for words and goes silent. He really isn’t sure, he can’t quite pin down his decision-making there.

“Why’ve you been cold to me lately?” Harry says. “Why d’you still get in a snit if once in a while, I take a meeting instead of getting dinner with you?”

“I don’t get in a fucking _snit —“_

“You still don’t like how important my career is to me,” Harry accuses. “After all this time.”

“No, love —“

“You don’t. You think it’s unnatural of me, or something, that I’m not always around to soothe the girls, or soothe you.” Harry seems to hesitate, then: “You don’t think I’m as maternal as Louis. You don’t think I’m as loving.”

Zayn’s bowled over by this. “The fuck? That’s not how I think at all.”

“You can admit it.”

“Oh, mate, no. God, I can’t believe you think that. I know how much you love me and our girls.”

“But I’m not around as much as he was, or would be.”

Zayn sighs.

“I’m not,” Harry prods him.

“This is the shit you believe about yourself,” he says. “This is you projecting —“

“No, it’s shit you believe about me!”

“Where does this come from, this endless insecurity about Louis? What do I do to make you feel insecure about him?”

“What, besides confide in him, have inside jokes with him —“

“We’re co-parents! We’re friends! It took us a lot of hard work to get where we are!”

“— then why did you tell him you relapsed instead of me?” Zayn opens his mouth and closes it, and Harry hammers him: “‘Cos you trusted him to nurture you better than you did me!”

“That’s not it at all. You have this so, so twisted.”

“Look, you loved somebody,” Harry says raggedly. “You loved someone and had a life with him and two children. He left you, not the other way ‘round. I never had that. Just friends with benefits, empty relationships, an empty marriage. You’re the only person I’ve ever loved, or even wanted to love.”

“Harry, Harry… why do you need so much from me? Why do you need my whole entire fucking heart, so the father of my kids can’t even keep a tiny piece? I love you so much, I’ve bled for you, wept over you, waited for you, and it’s not enough?”

“Simple question, Zayn. Why did you tell him you drank, and not me?”

Zayn drops his gaze and stares down at his clasped palms, running his fingers over his rings. “I was afraid,” he mutters. “I was, like… telling you makes it real. Telling you’s lettin’ _you_ down. I didn’t want to be there in this place with you. We’ve never been here before... I didn’t want to go.”

Harry accepts this with a small incline of his head.

“Why do you want to rehash this shit?” Zayn says. “This shit about me ‘aving kids with someone else? It’s just the facts, it’s been that way always, why do we keep ending up back here?”

“I get insecure! Christ! I mean, like —“ Harry struggles for words. “He gave you so much, he was like this fucking martyr for you! I just feel like I can never measure up, like you always think I don’t give you as much as he did!”

“What’d he give me that you don’t? Huh?”

“The best years of his life? Gave up touring and promoting both of his solo albums so he could stay home and take care of your kids?”

“Oh, come on —“

“I’m serious, look where those kids are now! Money aside, Mia’s playing for one of the best uni football teams in the country, Amir’s at Juilliard, Sunday’s got a shot at the Olympics. Don’t tell me that isn’t evidence of Louis’ sacrifices, his pouring years of his own wasted potential into those kids.”

“That’s not the only reason they’re doing well —“

“It’s everything else, too. He gave up his relationship, _and_ his friendship with Liam to make things work with you the best he could. Gave you a son —“

Zayn has been sitting there inflamed with guilt as Harry went on and on, but at the last one he collapses sideways onto the duvet, laughing. “A _son_ ,” he repeats. “Who do you think I am, mate, some goat herder?”

“That’s not what I meant, come on,” Harry says, laughing too. “I just meant he’s your little mini-me, he’s so musically talented, I dunno...”

Zayn drops Harry’s wrist and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. He stares at their hands instead of looking his husband in the eye. Harry’s engagement ring has blood on it. “Love,” he says, “I live for our girls, alright? I miss ‘em terribly right now, and when I knew my other kids could die, they were the only reason I could imagine to keep going if that happened. Them and you. You’ve given me so much, trust me. So don’t say this shit, ‘cos it hurts me.”

“I’m sorry. Feeling this way hurts _me.”_

“One thing you gave me that he definitely didn’t,” Zayn says, and grins, trying to lighten the mood again. “Your virginity.”

Harry cracks a smile. “Fuck off... read the room.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I know you love him, alright? You do.”

“Sweetheart, I love ‘im like family, I always have.”

“But you do still love him.”

Zayn flicks his gaze up to meet Harry’s. “Like you said, you don’t know how it feels. You don’t know how it feels for someone you love, who you’ve shared your life with for five years, to come to you cryin’ their eyes out and ask you for a divorce.”

“No. I don’t.”

“And you’re lucky. ‘Cos every day I have to live with knowing I let my kids’ dad down, and we couldn’t make it work. But not one part of me thinks that wasn’t always meant to happen. That it wasn’t meant to be you and me. ‘Cos it was.”

Harry lies down next to him, and they look at each other. Zayn reaches up to play with his hair.

“Are you gonna be okay tonight?” Harry whispers. “Seriously, if you want we’ll drop everything and just go be with the girls. Nothing’s more important than your health.”

“I actually want to do it,” Zayn says. “Does that sound mad? I’m not worried about it anymore, I’m really not.”

Harry nods. “Do you want to drink more?” he says, sounding like he’s afraid of the answer.

“Of course I do,” Zayn says, and Harry’s face falls. It’s terrible to upset him — he’s got those Bambi features, and it yanks on Zayn’s heart to be the cause of his sadness. “I would, yeah, love to drink more, obviously.”

“Why?

“Why — ‘cos of the reason I drank in the first place!” Zayn exclaims, laughing. “Especially now that I relapsed, and I feel like a fuckin’ idiot waste of space…”

The Bambi face gets even worse; Harry’s green eyes are like saucers. “You’re not, God, you’re not. We love you, Zayn, don’t say shit like that… I think the world of you, I don’t want you to numb yourself.”

“I know that. I do. So I’m fighting it really hard, right now, ‘cos I’ve got no desire to go on a bender or ruin my life. I don’t feel like my sobriety’s wrecked, I just let things get away from me… All these little rituals and things, maintaining nearly twenty years of it, I got sloppy…” He strokes Harry’s hair. “I’m really feeling okay, now, and I do want to play the show. I think it’d be good for me.”

“Only if you’re sure.”

“I said to — uh. I said to Louis…” Zayn peeks at Harry out of the corner of his eye, and Harry gives him a nod _._ “Just, like, it’s probably good for me to not, y’know… blow up this tour. I think keeping things as normal as I can and with a safety net is a good idea. I texted my sponsor while he was in there talking to you all, and he agreed with that.”

Harry sighs, then snuggles into Zayn. Zayn wraps his arms around him in relief, and buries his nose and mouth into Harry’s sweet-smelling hair.

“We can just leave, though,” Harry whispers. “We can go and see the girls. We can leave all this behind, I promise.”

It’s a startling offer from Harry, who would never suggest something that irresponsible normally. He must be terribly worried.

“I’d love that,” Zayn admits, “but no… no, love, let’s do the concert…”

“You really want to?”

Sort of. He doesn’t love performing the way the rest of them do, and he hasn’t gotten much joy out of returning to their old hits in rehearsal. At best it feels like prayer — monotonous, but comforting in its familiarity. But it’s nice to perform with Harry, and to feel some semblance of closeness with the other boys. He’s gotten along with Liam much better lately; Liam even managed to talk him down a bit, earlier. He was brutally honest, said that all they could do was take one moment at a time and trust that everything would likely be okay, then suggested Zayn take some Xanax and just sleep through the ordeal — an idea Zayn had already had.

He was two Xanaxes in when he thought about drinking. The idea came to him like the urge to jerk off does; tickly, itchy, refusing to leave and growing stronger by the minute. Finally, he cracked open a bottle of wine from the minibar and drank freely from it, then was eaten alive by regret and dumped every ounce of booze that was in the hotel room into the sink. Thousands of dollars down the drain. He dozed off after, so abruptly it was like he’d been roofied, and had a series of gruesome nightmares about his kids being dead. Funerals and identifying bodies, that sort of thing. He was only awoken by Louis pounding on the door.

Zayn plays with the locket that dangles from Harry’s neck. It contains two photos, one of Marlena and one of Toni. He had it made a few years ago when they summered in France, when he was spending long hours on set each day and wanted something close to his skin that reminded him of his daughters. He only wears it when he has to be away from them.

“I want to,” Zayn says. “I do.”

“If you’re sure, then we’re all set to go on.”

Zayn nods and strokes Harry’s hair. He wishes he could jolly Harry out of this serious, dour mood, make him silly and light-hearted again.

“How big a fight did you and Louis get in?” he asks him.

“Huh?”

“There’s blood on your hand, and your mouth’s swollen.”

“Oh,” Harry says, clearly embarrassed. “We said some nasty things to each other, pushed each other… I slapped him, he punched me.”

Zayn heaves a massive, fatherly sigh that he’s surprised to hear come out of himself. “He _punched_ you? How hard?”

“I’m fine, seriously.”

“You don’t look it.”

“You know how sensitive my skin is, with all the retinoids. It barely hurts.”

“Fuck, Harry… you sure?”

“Yeah. Trust me, I’d be milking it if not,” he adds with a wry smile.

“I can’t believe you two would get to that point. That’s absolutely crazy.”

“We were both upset, and you know how it is with us.”

Zayn hesitates. “I always sort of thought, you know, once everything was sorted with the four of us, you two might start gettin’ on better again.”

Harry doesn’t respond for a moment. “It’s just hard,” he finally says. “We have shit between us that we never really worked out.”

Zayn continues playing with his locket. “What happened to the teenagers we couldn’t keep apart from each other? Liked each other so much they moved in together?”

Harry’s face is unreadable. He shrugs.

 

*

 

When they return to Louis and Liam’s room, the other three of them look at Zayn with the same kind of pitying concern that everyone aimed at him when he got out of rehab.

Zayn clears his throat and gruffly says, “Hey,” with a lot of authority behind it, to ward off any “ _heyyyy, champ”_ sort of comments. They’re all huddled on top of the bedspread together like they’re teenagers again, Louis half in Liam’s lap and Niall shouldered up against both of them as if for warmth.

Louis meets his eyes. “So I just got off the phone with David, and the kids are safely in the air,” he says. “He didn’t want to let me know ‘til they were clear of the airport, but they’re well past L.A., now. And Mims texted, too… be here in about nine hours.”

Zayn sighs in relief. “Good. Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Niall moves kind of hesitantly toward the edge of the bed, then slides off it, coming over to him.

Zayn stares at him apprehensively up until Niall spreads his arms and wraps them around him. “What’s this?”

“A hug, you cabbage,” Niall says.

Zayn stops himself from fighting it and decides to just pretend it’s twenty-five years ago, that Niall is still that sweet, innocent kid who thought he was the coolest guy in the world. A lump rises in his throat.

Harry comes in, then, and wraps his arms around both of them, and in a flash Liam and Louis are there too, squeezing in. Zayn is wrapped in a big warm cocoon of arms.

They stay like that for a moment, the five of them, then break apart clearing their throats.

“Alright,” Zayn mutters, “let’s, uh, go get this shit over with.”

“Great pep talk, mate,” Louis says, grinning. “Very inspirational.”

“Wembley!” Liam cheers. “Ayyy!”

 

*

 

They head to the stadium in separate cars — Zayn and Harry in one, and Louis, Liam and Niall on the other. There’s no gossiping about the other two going on in the latter, though. All the earlier tension has gone up in smoke. They really just want to have a good show together, and they’re starting to feel the nerves from that. Niall keeps rubbing his palms together; he lifts a ragged thumbnail to his mouth, and Liam reaches over to absentmindedly bat it down. Louis just stares out the window at the parks of London as they roll by.

They rush through sound check, then bolt backstage for hair and makeup. Around them there’s a swirl of activity, everyone on their team making frantic telephone calls and jittering around nervously. Lottie, who’s joining them for their England dates, leans over Louis’ shoulder and stares hopelessly at his face in the vanity mirror. “I can’t hide this gash, Lou, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” he says cheerily.

“You sure? ‘Cos we can’t hide Harry’s lip, either, so everyone’s going to know what happened.”

“I think it’s jaunty,” Harry calls from the other side of the room, over the sound of the hair dryer Lou is using on him. “I’ve never had a fight injury before, it’s growing on me.”

Louis laughs. Lottie shakes her head.

“If you two know what you’re doing,” she says, and laughs too.

“All publicity is good publicity,” some bloke from RCA mutters from behind them, tapping away at the Blackberry watch on his wrist.

Louis catches Lottie’s eye in the mirror. She gives him a worried look.

“Go, love,” he says, patting her arm. “This is as good as it’s gonna get for me…” He indicates Liam, who’s a few chairs down. “See if you can do anything about Payno. ‘E’s not injured, just old.”

“He-ey,” Liam complains. “Younger than you, old man!”

“Yeah, I’m older and wiser.”

“Not wise enough to not get yourself smacked in the face with an eight carat diamond.”

“Hey,” Zayn interrupts. “Ten karats. Vintage.”

He’s sat on the edge of a vanity, having his hair fussed at by one of Lou’s assistants while Niall primps in the mirror next to him. He’s smoking a cigarette, which nearly got him snapped at by a member of venue security earlier, but Harry had interceded and said, “Hullooo… is there a problem?” No one wants to get on Harry’s bad side. He’s built up so much public goodwill and a cadre of such viciously nasty lawyers over the years that going up against him about anything is suicide. So the guy just slunk away from Zayn, muttering, “No, no problem.”

“Oh, ‘scuse the fuck out of me,” Liam says. “Ten karats, vintage.”

This strikes Louis as sort of ridiculous. What’s ten karats, around a million dollars? That gives him pause, even though his ex-husband’s finances aren’t his business now that their kids are grown. He knows the Malibu house ended up being mostly financed by Harry, and that Zayn agreeing to this tour was partly financially motivated. It’s just hard to make money in music anymore if you don’t tour, and Zayn hasn’t in ages, though he’s had a fairly reliable output of albums and singles and videos over the last twenty years.

Louis isn’t great with money either, but he’s made enough investments that he’s liquid when he needs to be. They alternate paying their kids’ tuitions each semester, and while Mia gets the mandatory partial scholarship for D1 athletes, Amir’s is sky-high thanks to their incomes. Louis got a call from the Juilliard bursar’s office in January saying they hadn’t received payment, and after he mentioned this to Zayn, a check in Harry’s name had ended up covering it. Louis never brought this up, though. He felt weird not thanking Harry, but he had no idea what the arrangement there was. Maybe he was covering for Zayn while Zayn moved money around, who knows. Maybe it was a birthday gift.

“I really am sorry, Louis,” Harry says, fiddling guiltily with the ring. “I forget it’s on my finger, I’ve knocked myself in the face with it a few times.”

“Water under the bridge, mate,” Louis says. He makes eye contact with Liam in the mirror, and Liam comes over to him, leaning over his shoulder and sticking a finger into his ear. Louis snorts and slaps him away.

“Quit it,” he says, then reaches up to caress Liam’s face, looking at their reflections in the mirror. “Aw, you look all handsome.”

“Do I?” Liam kisses him on the cheek. “Scruffy. Still fancy me?”

“Yes, you dope.”

Behind them, Niall has come over to Harry, who starts playfully mussing his hair. Niall murmurs something to Harry that Louis doesn’t catch; whatever it is, it makes him smile and look reassured.

 

*

 

On the stairs behind the stage the four of them gather. Zayn hangs back; he’ll come out a beat later, after some banter to lead up to his appearance. In the darkness, they clutch the railing and wait for the stage managers to signal them.

The crowd is roaring, riled up by 5SOS and more than ready for the main event of the night. After all this time, the sound of it is still a force of nature, like the sound of the ocean. The back of Louis’ neck tingles, and he reaches out and grabs Niall’s hand. Niall grins at this and squeezes him.

“Sweaty palms,” Louis admonishes under his breath.

“Bit nervous,” Niall admits.

Harry smiles, his teeth shining in the darkness. “Nothing to be nervous about,” he says.

Liam reaches over and pinches Louis on the bum, making him jump and laugh.

The stage manager nearest to them raises his hand in a thumbs up. The curtain parts.

Louis glances at Harry again, for reasons he isn’t quite sure of. Harry looks placidly back at him, then gives him a silent thumbs up as if to reassure him.

They begin the long walk out.

The crowd is deafening, the lights so blinding that you tear up if you fix your eyes in one place too long. Louis bounces along, operating on muscle memory now. He palms his microphone from hand to hand.

After what feels like an eternity, they reach the lip of the stage. Harry lifts his mic to his mouth, hand right in front of the blossoming bruise on his jaw. “Good evening,” he says. “We’re One Direction.”

Louis, grinning, says, “You know, boys, I think we’re missing someone.”

The four of them look around in exaggerated pantomime, to audience laughter that rises up into the night sky. The women in the front row look up with shining, curious eyes as their laughs die down, like they’re wondering where the band could possibly be going with this and can’t wait to find out.

“I think you’re right,” Liam says, with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Think we’re meant to be five, aren’t we?” Niall adds.

Over the ensuing din, Louis can just barely hear one of the fans in the front row screaming, “WHAT? NO. _WHAT_?”

They all turn and look back toward the stage. Multicolored blobs swim in Louis’ vision, but he sees Zayn appear, clear as day, and start gliding toward them down the catwalk.

Wembley explodes in a riot of sound, just like they wanted. It’s one of those rare pure shock moments, the kind that barely exist anymore since the Internet took over the world. A real, sincere, you-had-to-be-there sort of thing.

Zayn looks abashed, but he’s smiling. He stops beside Harry, who slides an arm around his waist and leans in to whisper something in his ear.

Zayn lifts his mic to his mouth. “Wassup, Wembley?” he says, his voice echoing through the stadium, and the screams become deafening. In unison, they all drop their mic hands to their sides — this is clearly going to go on for some time.

Niall is grinning and shaking his head. “Love these fans,” he says. Louis can’t quite hear him, but he can read his lips, plain as day.

Louis glances over at Liam, smiling. Liam smiles back, as warm as the sun, and in unison they turn their heads to squint out at the audience: a rolling, teeming mass of joyful people.

He closes his eyes, basking in the screams and in the energy that pours off the crowd.


	2. Chapter 2

THE ATLANTIC OCEAN, JUNE 24, 2036

Amir is dozing on the jet when someone starts shaking his arm, rousing him from panicky, shallow dreams about being trapped by walls of fire.

He opens his eyes slowly, rubbing at them. It’s Mia, holding a tablet. She still has an oxygen cannula in her nose, and she’s dragging the tank along behind her.

“Hey,” she whispers. Her voice is raggedly hoarse. “C’mere.”

“What?” Amir says petulantly.

“I wanna talk to you. C’mere.”

He gets up and follows her. Sunday and Evan are fast asleep in the seats across from him, and out the window, there’s boundless dark ocean that bleeds into the night sky.

They go into the jet’s bedroom, which is wallpapered with an intricate floral pattern in gold leaf. Amir’s always been in love with Harry’s jet. Their dads have chartered jets when they needed them, but never found it necessary to own one — this is Harry’s, down to the wallpaper in the bathroom, which is interlocking cursive silver HSes. It’s one of many glamorous things about Harry that Amir has made a covetous mental note of.

Mia takes a seat on the bed and motions for Amir to join her. He sits next to her and rests his head against her shoulder like he used to do when they were kids. They were inseparable back then; they used to sit in the same chair at breakfast, even.

She rests the tablet on her legs and hits play. It’s a video someone in the audience took of Zayn coming out onto the stage at Wembley. It’s wobbly, but Amir can see his dad’s face on the big screens, and he’s smiling.

The screens cut to Louis, who’s grinning but tearful, and then to the crowd, who are losing their minds.

“Cute, right?” Mia rasps. “Look how happy they all look…”

“Yeah,” Amir murmurs.

“It worked, too. Liam texted me they’re selling merch like crazy, and tickets for their other dates are getting scalped for like, thousands of dollars.”

“Is the concert over?”

“Yeah. They’re back at the hotel, waiting up for us.”

“Seriously? We’re gonna get there at like, four.”

“I know.” Mia yawns. “I told Dad to go to bed, but you know how he is.” He can tell from her inflection that she means Louis. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have gotten you up, you’re gonna be jetlagged.”

Amir is groggy, but he isn’t exactly eager to return to his nightmares. “It’s fine,” he mutters.

Mia nudges him. “You and Evan want to take the bedroom? ‘Cos you know Dad’s gonna make you get separate rooms at the hotel.”

“No, I’m not gonna make you sleep on the couch...”

His initial reasons for suggesting Mia take the bedroom were sort of selfish — she keeps hacking up disgusting black phlegm, and sounds like she’s having a hairball while she’s doing it, he didn’t want to listen to that. But now that Amir’s had a little time to come down off his adrenaline, he’s worried about her.

She just shrugs, though. “I wonder where we’ll go when they all leave London. We could always just go off on our own, we don’t need to meet up with the kids right away. London house, Surrey house?”

“I wanna see family, I don’t wanna be alone.”

“We won’t be alone, it’ll be the three of us.”

“We should go see Phoebe first, so Sunday can see the boys, then the two of us can do whatever once she flies back out. ‘Cos you know she’s not going stay away from her horse for more than a couple days.”

“Good point,” Mia says, and coughs into the sleeve of her sweater. “What about Evan?”

“I think he’s gonna meet his parents in New York when they can get a flight back. Obviously he can’t go back home…”

“Right. God, I can’t believe everyone’s houses are gone, just like that.”

“Ours might not be. You never know.”

Mia smiles kindly at him, her blue eyes twinkling.

“It might not be,” Amir repeats in a soft voice.

“Might not be,” she agrees, then reaches up and strokes his hair back behind his ear like she does when she thinks he’s upset. “So… what I wanted to talk to you about…”

She sounds really serious. “Fuck,” he says, his heart sinking. “What is it?”

“Well, first, I think something happened between Dad and Harry.”

“Wait, Louis?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you mean, something happened?”

“The Sun and the Mail are both saying they got in a fight. Like a physical, y’know — a fistfight. I thought they were full of shit, but they both have bruises.”

This wakes Amir up. “Whoa, seriously?”

“Yeah.” She swaps browser tabs on her tablet and hands it over to him. “Look...”

He reads for a moment, his eyes darting quickly. “Wait, Dad _relapsed_? What’s going on?”

“I dunno,” Mia quickly says. “That part’s just some tabloid bullshit, for now. I haven’t heard anything from any of them about this stuff.”

“But they have a picture of his sponsor —“

“There’s other reasons he could have needed his sponsor.”

Amir flaps his hand at her. “Let me read.”

 

*

 

 **THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOWN** : ONE DIRECTION TRIUMPHANTLY RETURNS TO WEMBLEY AS FULL FIVE-PIECE, AMID REPORTS OF BACKSTAGE DRAMA

 _The 1D boys were back in full force in their first appearance as a full band since 2015. After an hour’s delay, tonight’s Wembley tour opener went off without a hitch, though_ The Sun _has exclusively learned that the show almost didn’t go on._

_The foursome of Harry, Niall, and married couple Liam and Louis had announced their ninth full tour ‘Still Got It’ last December... but gave no indication that Zayn Malik, erstwhile member and hubby to Harry, would be tagging along._

_So it was a shock to everyone when Malik unexpectedly joined the lads on stage for their first show. Fans quickly realized that this surprise was why the band had been holding back on announcing a single from their upcoming album, or offering any tour merch. The band debuted their new song_ ‘Turn Around’ _at the concert, a crisp up-tempo ballad with vocals from prodigal son Zayn, while simultaneously launching it as a single on streaming services, where it’s already racked up several million plays._

 _The setlist included several other new tunes, though it was otherwise mostly made up of old hits, including_ ‘Strong’ _from the band’s third studio album, and eternal classic_ ‘What Makes You Beautiful’.

_But sources tell us that this unlikely return to form for the boyband almost didn’t happen._

_Even fans who forgot their glasses couldn’t miss the most glaring indicator of backstage strife: Harry Styles walked out sporting a bruised jaw and split lip, and Louis Tomlinson had an obvious gash on his cheek atop its own bruise._

_Concert-goers and those viewing the show live on iTV-Studio Concert Streaming quickly took to social media to air their suspicions that Tomlinson and Styles had engaged in fisticuffs._

carly @ **misofiso**  
……………if louis and harry got in a literal fistfight im going to scream for 30 million years  
8:37 **PM** · June 24, 2038

sädboy inc. @ **vodkadetective**  
Sdbjnsnfj do you think harry literally clawed louis’s face with his nails. Tonight is the funniest thing that ever happened to the classic pop fandom  
9:01 **PM** · June 24, 2038

Ally @ **chronicallyally**  
Everyone at the show is so hype about Zayn coming back but we just want to know what happened to Louis and Harry! :( They’re talking to each other on mic like everything is normal so maybe they just got in an accident together???  
9:15 **PM** · June 24, 2038

 _Now_ The Sun _can confirm from insiders that the band’s two omegas did in fact have a blistering row over none other than Malik, who they both share children with._

_As our Dan Wootton has exclusively reported over the years, Styles and Tomlinson have shared plenty of drama — from the meltdown of their once extremely close friendship, which was always dogged by romantic rumors; to bitter arguments about the direction of the band; to catfights over Malik, who got together with Styles several years after his messy divorce from Tomlinson._

_But tonight took the cake, insiders say, and marked the first time the two had come to physical blows._

_Why? Well, our sources explain that Malik, a recovering alcoholic, broke his sixteen year sobriety shortly before the concert. These reports were bolstered by post-show sightings of Malik’s London A.A. sponsor walking into the lobby of the Corinthian Hotel, where the band is known to be staying before they play London Stadium tomorrow night. The band apparently went into crisis talks after Zayn relapsed, and eventually decided to carry on playing Wembley anyway._

_Malik did look peaky and exhausted on stage, though that could be partly explained by the reason the concert was postponed in the first place — a delay due to a wildfire raging through Los Angeles, where Malik and Tomlinson’s two children are currently living, along with Liam Payne’s daughter from a previous relationship._

_In the only public comment from the band today, Tomlinson confirmed late in the afternoon that all three children were safe, tweeting: “_ Thanks so much for the concern everyone xx Some of our kids were in Calabasas today, but got evacuated safely. Everyone affected by the fire is in our thoughts & we all plan to help cleanup and rescue efforts in any way we can. Looking forward to tonight’s show! _”_

_So what does this mean for the rest of the tour? Is Malik going back to rehab? Will Tomlinson and Styles be fit to share the stage for a whole summer? As for now, no one is quite sure. No dates have yet been cancelled or rescheduled, and reps for the band and its individual members have characteristically clammed up. Hang onto those tickets anyway, ladies; even if the tour gets cut short, they’ll be worth something someday._

*

 

“I’m narked,” Louis yells from the bathroom.

Liam, who’s been finding it very hard to stay awake until the kids’ plane lands, jerks back to full consciousness. He’s lying across their bed, still in his jeans and shoes with product in his hair and the overhead light shining directly into his eyes, but he knows if he lets himself truly doze he’ll be out for eight hours. “Yeah,” he calls back, despite not knowing what Louis is talking about.

Louis comes back out, hands on his hips. “You aren’t listening.”

“I’m —“ He clears his throat. “What exactly were you shouting about, angel?”

“That Sun article!”

“Ohh,” Liam says, fighting his heavy eyelids. “Look, I know, but they’re just fighting for relevance, yeah? They know full well how pathetic they are… so does everyone else… not worth raising your blood pressure…”

“But it’s just so fuckin’ condescending to all of us, especially Zayn… and who leaked? That’s what I wanna know. ‘Cos I know me and Harry were sort of asking for this by going on stage wiv busted-up faces, but that other shit definitely wasn’t guesswork.”

“Yeah,” Liam agrees. “Someone who was backstage with us, I guess… would’ve overheard us talking… thought they all had NDAs, though.”

“Yeah. Reps said they’re looking into it.”

“How angry is RCA?”

“ _Angry_? You heard what Saul was saying backstage, they’re ecstatic. Single’s sellin’ like crazy right now, and the show got, like, ten million views on ITV’s streaming thing. Drama’s good for everyone except us.” Louis comes over and sits down beside him, stroking his hair. “Hey, you want to just go to sleep, babe?”

“No, no… I want to meet them at the airport…”

“It’ll be alright if you don’t, you can see them when we get back to the hotel.”

“No, no.” Almost out of nowhere, Liam’s throat closes and his eyes well up with tears. “I want to… uh.” His voice wavers, and he stops.

Louis’ hand pauses. “What’s wrong?”

Liam shakes his head. Hot tears leak from his eyes and stain the bedspread under him. “I was just so fucking worried,” he chokes out.

He didn’t really let himself feel it until he knew the kids were safe, and even then they immediately got distracted by what was going on with Zayn, and then rushing to play the concert, and then all the post-concert stuff. It’s just he doesn’t even know what he would do if he lost Sunday — his regrets would kill him. He already feels like he failed her in so many ways, like he fucked up raising her after her mum left. There’s so much he still wants to tell her, so much he wants to apologize for.

“Oh, Liam… me too, but they’re alright now. We can see them soon, and hug ‘em.” Louis pauses. “I keep thinking about people who live so close to us who lost people. Probably even some of our neighbors didn’t make it. It’s horrible, I can’t wrap me head around it.”

“Me neither,” Liam murmurs.

“I’ve been making some calls about who’s best to give money to, besides the Red Cross. Like if we can donate directly to people who’ve been stranded? But it’s so chaotic that I haven’t been able to get a straight answer. I suppose it’s best to just give to the big orgs, meantime… I just wish there was something more we could do from here.”

Liam knows why Louis is talking so fast, about so many things, and trying to fix everything for everyone: he still feels terrible about not evacuating the kids sooner. Liam wants to comfort him, but he doesn’t want to put him on the defensive.

“Should play a benefit concert,” he suggests.

“That’s a good idea.”

“C’mere,” Liam says, tugging at his shirt. “Cuddle me.”

“Aww,” Louis says, settling down on the bed with him, wrapping his arms around Liam and burying his face in his chest. “Usually me who’s asking for cuddles.”

Liam pulls Louis skin-tight close, crushing his slender body to him and burying his lips and nose in Louis’ hair.

“Everything really is alright,” Louis says muffledly into his shirt. “It’s okay.”

“I know.”

Louis reaches up and pinches him on the nipple. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s lighten up. How can I make you laugh?”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to, c’mon. Don’t make that sad Liam face at me, that just kills me.” Louis sits up and bends over him, kissing him on the forehead and stroking his hair. “Lemme think of a joke. What’s a good joke? I don’t know any. Er, knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Dover.”

Liam snorts. “What?”

“Say Dover who!”

“Dover who?”

Louis grabs at his own dick. “Ben Dover and find out.”

Liam obliges him with a chuckle. He laces their fingers together and brings Louis’ hand to his mouth to kiss his knuckles.

“That’s an Oli original,” Louis says. “And I believe the only knock knock joke I know.”

“There’s no way Oli was the first person to make that joke.”

“He claims he is.”

“That’s — I don’t believe that even a little bit.”

“He says he kills with that joke in Scotland.”

“I bet he does. If you want some knock knock jokes, just ring Harry.”

“Mmm,” Louis says, smiling thinly. “I’m actually fine not seeing him ‘til tomorrow night.”

“I thought you two were alright?”

“We’re _alright_ , like we’re past it and I’m sort of relieved we finally had it out for real. But he’s not my favorite person in the world right now, no.”

“Well, I didn’t think so.”

Louis grins at him, his eyes crinkling. “So, did I manage to distract you a bit?”

“Yes,” Liam says, nuzzling his cheek. “Thank you.”

“Aww, there’s my sweet boy, yeah?”

Liam sniffles. “Hand me my phone?”

Louis picks it up off the bedspread and gives it to him. Liam quickly searches up the _Sun’_ s tweet of the link to their article, hits reply, types, _Don’t recall us giving any interviews today! Stop going on about shit you know nothing about thanks,_ then hits send and hands the phone back to Louis.

Louis looks at the screen and does one of his rapid machine-gun fire laughs. “Love it.”

 

*

 

Mia wakes up a few hours after she went back to sleep, disoriented for a moment. She hacks into her sleeve for a while, getting black shit all over it, then wipes it off on the bedspread (sorry Harry) and goes out into the cabin.

Boris is passed out on the couch, snoring. Evan and Amir are still asleep — they put the armrests up on their pair of seats so they could cuddle. Evan is leaned back against the window, and Amir is curled up against his chest, fingers fisted in his hoodie.

Mia’s sort of jealous, looking at them. She even briefly misses stupid Jake — she just wishes she had someone to cuddle with, right now. She’s jittery like a scared animal, and the fact that her parents are swallowed up in a quagmire of drama yet again isn’t making her feel any better.

Evan grew on her a lot today. Admittedly, even after he started dating Amir, she’d still just thought of him as one of her little brother’s dumb friends. The same kid who had to get ten stitches when he smashed his face on the diving board in their pool one summer. But he sprang into action for her when they got out of the car — she felt like she couldn’t breathe at all, and he helped her stay calm while they waited for the EMTs. He’d had some medical training in the woods, he said, and it included how to help people who have been in a wildfire.

“Little breaths,” he said kindly, and held her steady, because she was half-delirious and floppy from the lack of oxygen. Amir and Sunday looked totally panicked, but Evan was relaxed and focused. And then he’d done the same for Petra, when she went into a coughing fit. He was like a totally different guy, suddenly. She could see what Amir sees in him.

Sunday is awake, sitting on the couch opposite Boris and looking at her texts on her watch. Mia comes over and sits down next to her, leaning into the back of the couch. She yawns a “Hi.”

“Hi,” Sunday murmurs. She looks up at Mia. “You okay? I heard you coughing.”

“Yeah,” Mia says hoarsely. “I’ll be okay.”

Sunday wraps an arm around her and pulls her in close. Mia’s surprised and comforted — Sunday isn’t usually touchy-feely like that. She leans her head against Sunday’s shoulder.

“Thanks for what you did today,” Sunday whispers. “You were really brave.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“It was, though.”

“Feel like I just kept yelling at everyone,” she admits.

“You kind of did,” Sunday says, laughing, “but it’s okay.”

Mia’s hit by another coughing jag, then. She bends in half, miserably hacking up phlegm. Sunday pats her on the back.

“God,” Mia groans. Her face, abs and chest ache.

“At least you’re getting it out,” Sunday says.

“Sunday?” she says in a small voice.

“Yeah?”

“Can you, like… just pet my head for a little while?”

“Sure.”

“Sorry, I know you’re tired too, I just…”

“No, I don’t mind,” Sunday says. “Just lie down.”

“Okay,” Mia says in relief.

She slides down on the couch, pulling a fleece blanket over her legs and stuffing an embroidered throw pillow under her cheek. Sunday scoots closer to her and starts smoothing her hair back from her face, gently, like she’s petting a horse. It feels really nice. Slowly, she lets her eyes close.

“Let’s go to Lake Elsinore when this is all over,” Sunday says softly. “Remember when we used to go play in the poppies?”

She nods. They used to roll down the hills, laughing.

“You’ll come home so we can go?” Mia murmurs.

“I’ll come home.”

 

HEATHROW, JUNE 24, 2036

As VIP guests, they’re given an entire private lounge to wait in as Harry’s jet circles overhead. Harry’s with them, against Louis’ preference — he can’t be annoyed, though, because he knows Harry loves his stepkids, and he’s along at Zayn’s request.

It’s fine, though. The four of them just sit in silence, the couples facing across from each other, in nondescript but very soft tan armchairs. Louis keeps checking the Internet out of boredom, but gets so annoyed by the rampant speculation about the band that he finally turns his watch off and just looks out the window to see the planes landing. Next to him, Liam is asleep, though every time Louis nudges him he jerks back to consciousness and lies, “I’m awake.”

They’ve been there for the eternity of a half an hour before the door opens, and an airport employee shepherds in four dingy, shell-shocked adolescents. Their faces are all pink as if sunburned, and their hair is coarse and gray from ash.

Louis leaps sideways off his chair like he’s twenty years younger and beelines for them, seizing the closest kid (Mia) and hugging her to him desperately. She clings to him, croaking, “Dad...”

Hot tears fill his eyes, and his throat tightens like a vice. He drags Amir and Sunday in too, reaching up to cradle the backs of their heads as he crushes all three of them to him. “Oh, my darlings... You’re alright, then? Everyone feeling okay?”

“We’re okay,” Amir says, burying his face in Louis’ shoulder.

Louis ruffles Amir’s hair hard. “Well, you smell terrible,” he chokes through his tears, and everyone laughs.

He can sense both Liam and Zayn hovering behind him, waiting for him to let go of the kids. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Harry’s lips moving in a soft whisper to them: “Give him a second...”

Louis grabs Evan and yanks him in to join the hug, patting him hard on the shoulder. Evan laughs.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Louis says, giving them all one last big squeeze. Mia grips his shirt tight in her hand for a second, then lets him go.

Louis steps back and out of the way of Liam and Zayn, whose faces are still tight masks of worry. Liam corrals Sunday, embracing her tightly, and Zayn does the same with his own kids. He’s crying too, though not as openly as Louis is. Tears stream silently down his cheeks as he kisses each of them on the head.

Harry sidles up beside Evan and squeezes his shoulder. “Hullo,” he says to him, giving him a smile as if to reassure him that he’s not the only odd man out.

Evan laughs. “Hey.”

Louis wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “So,” he says to Evan, “when are your parents back?”

“Um, they fly into New York in a couple of days. My dad has to wrap up some business first.”

Louis doesn’t like the sound of that. “Alright, well, stay with us as long as you like in the meantime,” he says.

“You sure? I could go wait for them, I can get into the brownstone, it’s no problem.”

“No, you’re not rattling around a massive townhouse all alone after you’ve had a bad scare,” Louis says sternly. “Not unless you really want to.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t be totally alone, our housekeeper’s there... But yeah, I’d like to stay with you guys, if that’s okay,” Evan says, glancing over at Amir, who smiles at him.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Louis says.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

Zayn looks up from his kids and says to Evan, “Sorry — Ethan, right?”

“ _Evan_ ,” Amir hisses.

“Right, right,” Zayn says. “‘Course, yeah, Evan… sorry, been a long day.”

“You’re fine,” Evan says graciously.

“Zayn,” Louis says. “Come on.”

“What?” Zayn says, still clinging to their kids. “I’m shit at names anymore, you know that. We did too many drugs when we were younger, fried my brain.”

Louis chokes on a laugh and quickly sobers. “Pretend you didn’t hear that,” he says to his children, who look delighted. Liam and Harry are both wearing expressions of restrained amusement.

“You lot could have showered on the plane, if you wanted,” Harry says, sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“There wasn’t soap or anything,” Sunday explains. Liam reaches up and strokes her hair.

Harry looks downright appalled at his own failure to provide soap. “There wasn’t? Sorry about that.”

“Honestly, it’s like the last thing we were worried about,” Mia says, then lets out a hacking cough that strikes worry into her father’s heart. “Definitely will at the hotel, though.”

“Right, I have rooms for all of you,” Louis says. “Individual rooms.” He directs this at Amir, who rolls his eyes.

“Is the house gone?” Sunday says to Louis, wearing the same kicked-puppy look that Liam was at the hotel.

“I dunno, love,” he says. “We haven’t been able to get anyone up there yet. Probably won’t for a few days. We all want to get going?”

They chorus yesses.

 

*

 

Amir and Evan ride back to the hotel with Zayn and Harry, and the girls stay with Liam and Louis; Sunday and Liam fall asleep on each other as the Range Rover rolls along the M4 through the velvety early morning darkness. Louis and Mia sit on the bench seat across from them, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

Mia keeps tapping away at her watch, then staring at it, then tapping some more, like she’s texting. “Aww,” she says after a while. “Hannah messaged me on Facebook.”

“Hannah?” Louis glances at her. “Ohh, that the mum from the family you adopted?”

Mia laughs. “‘ _Adopted’…_ From the family we picked up, yeah. She says thank you, she wants to send me a muffin basket.”

“That’s sweet of her. They seemed nice.”

“They were, I’m really glad I could help them.”

“Me too.”

“You’re not mad at me for scooping Evan, are you?”

“Mad? That you didn’t let a boy we’ve known all his life burn to death alone in his house? No, love.”

“But it added extra time.” She gnaws at her lip.

“Don’t second guess yourself now. Everyone’s alright.”

Mia continues scrolling, and her brow knits. “Shit,” she murmurs. “Remember my friend Jen, from high school? Her grandparents are missing.”

“Where d’they live?”

“Sherman Oaks…”

Sherman Oaks had gotten some of the worst of the fire. “That’s horrible.”

“I know.”

“Are you kids’ friends alright?”

Mia nods. “I think? We started texting people once we got on the plane… almost everybody said they’re okay. And service is so weird there right now, so not hearing from people isn’t necessarily… you know.”

“Right. Okay, good.”

“Yeah.” She lets out a wheezing cough.

“Hey,” Louis says, “you should kip in me and Liam’s room. Sleep on the couch… I’m worried about that cough, if you wake up and you can’t breathe or something.”

Mia rolls her eyes, but they’re twinkling. “What’s with you and making me sleep on the couch?”

“I just worry, love.”

Liam lets out a soft snore, and they look at each other and laugh. Mia starts to say something, then wheezes again and starts hacking. She digs a Kleenex from her pocket and spits into it, then peers at the phlegm.

“Oh, cool,” she says, looking relieved. “It’s not black anymore. It’s actually like human colored.”

Louis restrains his anxiety. “Good,” he says.

Mia looks up at him, then, and raises her fingers to his cheek, where the cut is. “Hey Dad? What happened here?”

“Ahh…” He sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“Can you try to explain, though? ‘Cos we all noticed Harry’s got a bruise. Kind of the elephant in the room.”

“Mmm. So you saw that shit from the _Sun,_ did you?”

Mia smiles mirthlessly. “How can you tell?”

“Just a wild guess.”

“Yeah, we all saw it. I’ve been getting blown up on social media, too.”

“You know the stuff they write is always twisted,” Louis says. “You know it’s not like that between me and Harry, the way they phrased it. There’s a lot of love there.. we’re family, we always will be.”

She nods. “So what else was the article right about?”

Here comes the tough bit.

“First,” Louis says, “your dad’s not gone off on a bender, okay? It’s not nearly that dire.”

“Okay,” Mia says, exhaling.

“But, uh. He did have a little relapse.”

She breaks eye contact with him, then. “Great.”

Louis reaches over and takes her hand, squeezing it. “I don’t want you to worry, yeah? He’s got it well in hand, it was just a little slip. He was so worried about you kids, that’s all.”

“So he drank?” Mia says, her voice catching. “Instead of being on the phone with us? Did it occur to him at all that I might want to talk to my dad, that I thought I could die and wanted to hear his voice, or that Amir would? What, he just goes to a bar instead?”

“No, sweetheart, no —“ Louis notices Liam stirring and lowers his voice to a whisper. “He didn’t go to a bar… he was right down the hall the whole time. He just mixed medication and a little alcohol and fell asleep by accident.”

“You don’t always have to make excuses for him.”

“He loves you so much, Mims. That’s never not been true.” He thinks of what Liam said, and offers, “What we all went through today was terrible. Let’s try not to be too hard on each other.”

“He never thinks about how his actions affect people.”

“Come on, Mia. People are so much more complicated than this always and never stuff you’re always spouting off...” Louis’ watch lights up with a text from Zayn himself, right then.

 _Haha guess what?_ Zayn says. _Our PR just called, apparently my fuckinf sponsor sold everything i told him to the sun. Hes the reason they had so much dirt. He called them as soon as he left the hotel earlier_

Louis’ eyes widen. _Jesus christ. Isn’t this the second sponsor who’s leaked on you ???_

_yeah. great stuff right?_

_Are you gonna sue ?_

_probly. harrys on the phone with our lawyers right now hes furious. he wants to go after Rob for NDA violations_

_Good… Lol he’s a bit aggro today huh ?_

_you know how he is_ , Zayn says. _gets angry once a year and when he does, everybody better run_

_Are you going after the sun for libel or is that too tricky_

_too tricky,_ Zayn says. _harry has a long standing PR relationship with them obviously… the rest of you do too_

_worth a tweet anyway i think. really more of a hit piece than fair coverage. remind them they’ve bit the hand that feeds them_

_tweet away, u have my blessing_

_payno already did actually,_ Louis replies.

_oh lol. tell him thanks then_

He turns his attention back to Mia, who says, “Is that him you’re texting?”

Louis clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“I figured. You had Dad face.”

He laughs. “Look, I don’t want to tell you how to feel. I just, y’know — it was hard to be in the position we were today. And the older you get the more you’re gonna realize that there are times where you might, ah. React in a way that’s a little more mature than your parents.”

“I don’t feel more mature than anybody,” Mia confesses. “I feel like I’m five years old.”

“No, no… the way you stayed calm today, I know I keep saying it, but you were properly brave, Mia. And I’m so sorry. It’s my fault you weren’t out of there sooner.”

“It’s okay,” Mia whispers hoarsely back.

“No. I should have made you evacuate last night.”

“Dad, Amir was the only one who wanted to leave, okay? And until this morning, we thought he was just being a wiener. Sunday and I both had shit we had to do this week, we didn’t _want_ to leave. You suggested it, we said no. It’s whatever.”

Louis shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything.

“Let it go,” Mia whispers. “You don’t always have to be such a martyr.”

Louis chokes on a laugh. “Well, I’ll climb down off me cross, then.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant stop beating yourself up.”

“I understand.”

Mia eyes him. “Was the concert good? I watched a little, it looked good.”

“Did it? I’m glad… yeah, it was wonderful. The fans were so great. I just wish we were less distracted.”

“I thought you guys did really well, considering what was going on. You’re all professionals.”

“Aw, that’s nice to hear.”

“Dad looked good. He looked happy...” Mia’s lip stiffens, and then tears prick her eyes as her face flushes.

“Oh, sweetheart...”

“I just want him to be healthy,” she whispers. “Like, once and for all.”

Louis reaches up, stroking her hair back, feeling the coarseness where ash clings to individual strands. “I know.”

She reaches up to smooth a tear away, staring up at the ceiling as if to stop them falling.

“He’ll be okay,” he adds. “He will.”

“I don’t want to see him go through this again.”

“It’s so different this time.”

Mia shrugs.

“It’s a hard battle to fight for as long as he has. This is why I wish you kids would stay away from all that shit. I don’t even want you starting down that road.”

“I know. I do think about that.”

“I know you do.”

Mia sniffles and swipes at her nose.

“You know,” Louis murmurs, “he was only twenty-two when he had to step up, be a dad…”

She shrugs and gestures to Liam. “So was he.”

“It’s different when you plan it,” Louis says. “Different than having it sprung on you.”

“You had it sprung on you, you were twenty-three.”

“Ahh… Mentally, I was older, and he was a bit younger.” Louis smiles at her. “Your granddad said that to me once. I thought he was full of shit at the time.”

Mia squints at him. “My — Mark?”

“Yaser, love.”

“Ohh. I didn’t realize you guys ever really talked.”

“Not really, no. Never got the impression he liked me much.”

“Nah,” Mia assures him. “He always asks how you are, when we visit.”

“He’s just being polite.”

“Aw, Dad. People do like you, you know.”

“That sort of good taste is hard to come by,” Louis jokes.

They fall quiet, Louis continuing to pet her head. It’s the first time all day he’s really had the time to think about what went down at the hotel, and it’s making him sort of queasy now. All of the awful shit he said is ringing in his head. _You coward... you prissy little nancy boy... get the fuck over yourself... what are you so afraid of?_ They pound his skull like a headache. He wants so badly to go to sleep; the post-concert high wore off so long ago, and now he’s just bone-tired, with aching muscles and an even more badly aching hand from punching Harry.

Liam clears his throat, then, and does a very exaggerated stretch and yawn. Sunday sits up, glances at her dad, then does a big fake stretch too.

“Oh, alright,” Louis says cannily, grateful for the distraction. “How long have you two been awake, then?”

“Uhhh,” Liam says, looking sheepish. “A while.”

“For most of your conversation,” Sunday admits.

“Guys!”

Liam starts laughing. “Sorry,” he says. “Just trying to, y’know...”

“Be polite,” Sunday finishes.

“It’s okay,” Mia says. “No secrets in this family, anyway.”

“No, not our strong suit, secrets,” Louis says.

 

*

 

Back at the hotel, Mia checks on Zayn before she goes to bed. He’s up still — she can hear the TV, and he opens the door right after she knocks, like he was chilling on the couch. The room is dark, though, so she figures Harry went to sleep.

“Hey,” she whispers. “I just wanted to say goodnight.”

Zayn nods, rubbing his eyes. “You going to bed?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna crash on the couch in Dad’s room… I don’t think he’s gonna get any sleep if I don’t.”

Zayn laughs. “Think you’re right about that.”

Mia studies her father’s exhausted face. “I don’t like this,” she says. “I don’t — I don’t like you drinking again, and Harry hitting Dad…”

“Oh, babydoll,” Zayn whispers. “They just had a bit of a tiff, you know how they can get, things got out of hand —“

“Well why are things still getting out of hand, huh?” Mia demands.

“I’m not perfect,” Zayn snaps. “I never promised to be perfect. I’m only human, and I’m still your father.”

“I know you’re human, I know, but why couldn’t you guys just keep it together for an hour?”

He sighs heavily at her. “Yasmeen, someday, when you have a child, and you have a moment when you think you might lose that child, you’ll understand. Been here for you your entire life, haven’t I? There ever been a time when you thought if you really needed me, I wouldn’t be there? Huh?”

“How about today?”

His eyes shutter. “I don’t want to hear about it anymore.”

“But why did you _drink_?”

Zayn reaches up and rubs at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have to realize I couldn’t stand it, thinking you kids might burn to death.”

“I know,” Mia whispers back, guilty and frustrated all at once.

She keeps thinking back to being a kid, and of how helpless she felt. Some of her earliest memories are of Zayn and Louis screaming at each other, Zayn disappearing to rehab, Louis laying in bed in the darkness, crying so she could hear him through the closed door when she was playing in her room down the hall. Mia would go and climb up onto the bed and poke at him — he’d pull her close and kiss her on the head, as if to let her know he was okay.

“Don’t cry,” Mia would tell him. “Daddy, don’t cry.” And she’d try to make him laugh.

She went through the same thing with Zayn, when she was older, and he was going through his infertility struggles with Harry. It was very hard to reach out to Harry — he disguised things masterfully, especially when it came to his stepkids. But Zayn would start crying silent, manful tears when you were watching a movie with him, or get a certain look on his face and then disappear for a smoke. Zayn, Mia would just snuggle up to in silence. He rarely wanted verbal comfort. He just wanted to know someone was there.

Behind them, in the shadowy depths of the hotel room, she can hear sheets rustling and Harry clearing his throat. They must have woken him up.

Zayn pulls her in for an embrace, and Mia squeezes him hard. She doesn’t let go for a long moment, just clings on in desperation. Zayn rubs her on the back.

“Why don’t you just get some sleep, meri jaan,” he murmurs. “We can talk in the morning, hey?”

“Okay,” Mia whispers into his shirt, knowing they won’t. This is a nighttime conversation, a _we’re both tired and stressed out of our minds in a hotel hallway at 5 a.m._ conversation. “You too.”

“I will.” Zayn presses a kiss to her head. “Look, you’ve had a scare. You go let Louis take care of you.”

Right. She can’t ask Zayn to take care of her. He needs to be taken care of, instead — by Harry, lurking somewhere back there, with his bruised face and his bloody engagement ring.

 

*

 

Mia takes a long hot shower in Liam and Louis’ bathroom. She’s so tired that she just sits under water, staring into space, lost in deep thought. She watches as the water runs black, then dingy, then finally clear.

If she’s totally honest with herself, she’s angry with all of them. She’s angry with Louis for dropping the ball and then forcing her to shoulder the burden, but what’s she going to do? He’s clearly in pain over that, why make it worse? She’s angry with Zayn for letting her down, but everything she learned from Al-Anon is telling her she has to just let those childish feelings of disappointment go.

And she’s angry at Harry, for having the nerve to hit her dad. She doesn’t even care if Louis provoked him — so what? He provokes, that’s just who he is. Harry’s the one who’s supposed to be so serene and above it all.

When they got back to the hotel, she had to be the one to tell to Amir that yes, Zayn’s relapsed, it wasn’t just tabloid nonsense, but he’s going to be fine, allegedly. And if Zayn does go back to rehab, it’s going to be her job to find time in her schedule to hang out with the girls, make sure they’re getting enough attention and have a non-Harry adult who they can confide in about their worries.

Mia dries off, then dresses quickly in hotel pajamas and a plush robe that’s hanging on the back of the door. She shuts the lights off before she peeks out into the bedroom. Dark and quiet. They’re probably asleep.

“Night,” she whispers, in case they aren’t.

One of them stirs, and then she hears Liam whisper back, “G’night, Mims. You feel a little better?”

Mia shuts the bathroom door behind her. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Night honey,” Louis chirps sleepily.

“Night, Dad.”

Mia heads out into the little hallway, shutting the door to the bedroom so she can flip on a lamp and start making up the couch with the blankets and pillows that have been laid out on the table.

Her ears prick up at soft conversation she can hear through the wall; she strains to pick out words as she fluffs up a pillow, but they’re talking too softly and through too many walls.

Mia tiptoes back down the hall and sidles up to the door.

“... what to really say,” Louis whispers. “I mean, it’s…” She can’t make out the middle part. “... and at what point do you sort of wash your hands of it, like, well, you’re an adult now…”

“Right. I know. I’ve got the same problem,” Liam whispers.

“At least with you it’s more cut and dried…”

“But that’s almost a problem in itself.”

“Right. No, it’s impossible either way, I know.”

“It is, yeah.”

“I always appreciated that me mum didn’t talk shit around the house… never had a sense of being swayed, y’know… just let everyone’s actions sort of speak for themselves…”

“I think that’s the best thing to do.”

“But once they get to a point of making their own calls — you heard in the car tonight, what she was saying.”

“Most of it, I was dozing…”

“It’s like — was she wrong? Not really. But I’m not gonna egg her on. I mean, you heard Harry earlier.”

“He was just upset, Tommo… he didn’t mean that shit, or it was old wounds if he did. I mean, c’mon, you and Zayn’ve barely seen each other since Amir went off to school, it’s a monthly check-in if anything.”

“More lately. He chats me up when he’s sad.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Yeah.” Louis mumbles something else she doesn’t catch. She leans into the door, burning with curiosity. “... worst timing, of course.”

“It’s not great, no.”

With an awful lurch, Mia realizes only as it’s happening that the pressure of her body against the door has caused the handle to turn; she tumbles into the darkness of her dad’s room, and he and Liam shout.

“Mia!” Louis barks, startling her — that’s his football coach voice. “Fuck are you doing?”

“Sorry!” she says, scrambling to her feet, straining to adjust her eyes using the low light coming from the moon through the open sliver of curtain. “Sorry, sorry. I just heard you guys talking...”

“What, and you wanted to eavesdrop?” Louis says, clapping the lights on and sitting up in the sheets, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t _do_ that!”

“Yeah, well, apparently it’s the only way I get to hear the truth!”

Louis heaves a theatrical sigh. She notices with a pang that he’s wearing a Bruins sweatshirt. “I’m extremely truthful with you,” he says. “That was a private conversation between me and my husband, it wasn’t meant for your ears.”

“Why’d you make me feel bad for saying what I did about Dad?”

“‘Cos I’m not gonna sit there and undermine your relationship with him!”

“I’m an adult! I get to have an opinion! When I tell you I’m hurt, I’d like if you could back me up!”

“It’s not about taking sides, love! I’m your parent, I’m gonna say what’s best in the long run, not what feels good to you in the moment when you’re angry!”

She wants so badly to tell him, _I know he cheated on you, I’ve known for years, I’ve never felt the same about him since I found out,_ but she can’t. She never can. It would just hurt him.

“Mia,” Liam interrupts gently. “You’re really tired, you should be in bed. You want me to make you some warm milk?”

“No thanks,” she says, then softens, because that actually does sound nice. “Well — maybe, yeah. Thanks.”

Liam gets up, then nudges past Mia to go down the hall to the kitchenette.

“Mims,” Louis says, his voice hoarse. “What happened today had nothing to do with you kids, and I didn’t want you thinking it did, is all. What happened today goes back twenty-six years.”

Hurt wells in her chest and throat, and she shrugs.

“You want another hug?” Louis says softly.

Mia comes over to him and wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his familiar shoulder. He pets her hair.

“Don’t eavesdrop,” he says sternly, but in a way that reassures her he isn’t actually angry with her. “Just a bad idea in general.”

“Okay.”

After a moment, Louis draws back and presses a kiss to her head, then pats her on the cheek. “Stubborn,” he murmurs.

Liam comes back in, and she sits at the edge the bed so he can hand her a cup of warm milk. He gives her a piece of a pill, too. Mia looks at it in her palm.

“Half a Valium,” he explains.

“Liam,” Louis says, laughing.

“What? She needs a good night’s sleep. It’s five in the morning.”

“You take Valium?” Mia says, surprised.

Liam shrugs. “Sometimes. This tour’s been a bit, um — even before the wildfires, we’ve been having, like, stalker recurrences —“ Louis interrupts this by making a wordless noise, and Liam puts a hand up at him. “She should be aware, alright? They all should.”

“Just is now the time?” Louis counters.

“Are you guys safe?” Mia says, concerned.

“Yes,” Louis says. “Perfectly safe, I promise.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Liam assures her. “I mean, neither do we. Security is on top of it. I’m just a worrier.”

Mia swallows the Valium. “It’s always something, right?” she says hoarsely.

“Always something,” Louis agrees.

 

*

 

Amir sneaks down to the lobby after everyone else is in their rooms and says to the clerk in his best dumb Los Angeles boy voice, “Hi, sorry, I think my room key got deactivated?”

“What room?” she says, moving closer to the gleaming counter between them and beginning to tap on a hologram display in front of her. She has one of those fancy posh accents, not like he’s used to hearing. _Hwhat rrrrrrooom?_

Amir gives her Evan’s room number with a smile, then heads back upstairs with his new keycard, his Air Force Ones squeaking on the marble floors.

He sneaks into Evan’s room, using the flashlight on his watch so he doesn’t trip over Evan’s boots (which are tossed haphazardly in the entryway) or crash into any walls. He turns it off as he’s stepping into the suite’s bedroom. He can hear Evan snoring.

Amir starts stripping, peeling his clothes off and tossing them aside. One of the dads’ personal assistants had driven over a bunch of their clothes from the London house so they didn’t have to stay in the same sooty outfits after they showered. He’d found a garment bag on his bed when he got in, with a note on it in Louis’ handwriting: “FOR A.W.T.M.” and then a little smiley face.

He creeps toward Evan’s sleeping form and kneels on the bed next to him. “Hey…”

Evan jerks in surprise. “What?”

“It’s me. It’s Amir.”

“Amir…” He looks around in the darkness, confused. Amir loves the way Evan says his name, like there’s magic to it. “Mmm. You’re not supposed to be here...”

“I didn’t want to sleep alone,” Amir whispers. “I’m gonna have nightmares. I wanna sleep with you.”

“Okay,” Evan whispers, lifting the comforter so he can climb under.

Amir spoons up against him, immediately soothed by the feel of Evan’s broad chest against his back. Evan wraps his arms around him, stroking his forearms and trailing his fingers ghostly along them, making the dark hair stand on end. Amir closes his eyes.

“You’re being bad,” Evan murmurs.

“My dad didn’t want us to have sex, and we’re not gonna have sex… we’re gonna sleep.”

“Tomorrow morning, though…”

“We’ll see,” Amir says playfully.

Evan nods and goes quiet, still stroking Amir’s forearms and wrists.

 

THE CORINTHIA, JUNE 24, 2036

Nothing happens between them in the morning, because Mia barrels in at 10:30 a.m. turning all the fucking lights on.

“Hi!” she says, and tosses a fiber-optic newspaper onto the bed, then goes over to open the blinds and window. Morning light and traffic noises pour in. “Rise and shine.”

“You psycho,” Amir yells, grabbing a pillow and covering his head with it. His head is pounding like there’s a tiny man using a jackhammer on his brain stem. “You are the worst person alive.”

“Thanks! By the way, didn’t Dad specifically ask you to stay in your own bed? … Morning, Evan.”

“Hey, Mia,” Evan says, clearing his throat, “could we maybe get like, another half-hour?”

“No,” Mia says, “‘cos we’re gonna be jet lagged out of our minds if we stay in bed all morning.”

She comes over and yanks her brother’s pillow away from him. Amir lets out a wordless yelp.

“Get OUT!”

“Fine, I’ll go, as long as you’re up,” she says. “But look at the paper first.”

Amir shoots a withering glare at her, but sits up and leans down across the bed to pull the newspaper to him.

It’s the _Daily Mail._ The top story above the fold is ‘ **1D DRAMA: The boys fend off speculation about relapses, backstage fistfights, divorce rumors and more as they launch reunion tour.** ’ The picture is three side-by-side photos from the concert: Louis, his face turned to the right so the gash is on full display, Harry turned to the left so his fat lip is visible, and Zayn in a moment where he happened to look like death warmed over. After he’s been holding it for a moment, the photo shifts and changes to a helicopter shot of Calabasas burning to the ground.

Amir’s heart quickens with anger, and he tosses it aside. “I can’t believe they still call them _the boys_ here,” he says. “They’re all forty. England is so corny.”

“You’re half British,” Evan points out.

“Not really. I’m not even a citizen like Mia is.”

Mia grins. “He’s always been jealous of that.”

“Uh, okay. I could get it if I applied.”

“But you weren’t born here.”

“Whatever. You were born in a fucking Escalade.”

“Hey!”

Amir shrugs. “Am I wrong?”

“You should be glad you didn’t have to go to immigration stuff when you were like, six,” she says. “It was so boring.”

“At least we were rich and famous and they didn’t care,” Amir says. “There’s immigrants in America who have actual problems.”

“You’re right, if we were anybody else they’d call you an anchor baby,” Mia says.

“You're such a douche. You can’t just say _anchor baby.”_

She rolls her eyes. “You are so funny with how you only ever get political when you want to shut somebody up.”

“Yeah, right. I volunteer way more than you do.”

“You do not!”

“Please, you don’t even help Dad with his foundation anymore, you just do that prison stuff with your law school friend like once a month! Back at school I play the piano at an old people home like three times a week!”

“That’s barely volunteering, you’d be playing the piano at home anyway!”

Amir throws Evan’s pillow at her, and she easily ducks it. “Can you go annoy somebody else now?”

Mia picks up the pillow and whips at back at him. “Are you coming to breakfast?” she says. “I don’t want to go alone, and the dads and Harry already ate.”

“Eat with Niall.”

“I was including him in the dads.”

“You were including him in the dads, but not Harry?”

“Yeah, fuck him. I’m not including him in anything right now.”

Amir laughs. “Why not?”

“‘Cos he hit Dad!”

“Didn’t Dad _punch_ him?”

“Whatever,” she shrugs. “And who told you that?”

“Liam,” Amir says.

Mia laughs. “You talked to Liam about it?”

“I talk to Liam all the time,” Amir says. “He has all the best info. Can’t you get breakfast with Sunday?”

“You know how she is, she had a protein bar and she’s like ‘Uhhh, I’m full,’” Mia says, in a pitch-perfect impression of Sunday’s voice.

“Fine, gimme like fifteen minutes, we’ll come by your room on our way down.”

“Sounds good,” Mia says, and waves bye as she heads out.

“You guys are funny,” Evan says once she’s gone. “Never talk to my sister like that.”

“That’s ‘cos you’re WASPs,” Amir says. “You don’t know how to communicate. Go brush your teeth, your breath smells like shit and I want to make out.”

Evan snorts and wrestles him back against the bed, pinning him down, and exhales his sour breath in his face.

“No!” Amir giggles, wriggling under him. “Asshole, I’ll kill you… stop!”

“Uh, good luck killing me when you can’t even get up.”

“Fuck you, I can get up.” Amir tries desperately to peel Evan’s hands off his wrists, but he’s gotten really strong in the last year. “No, fuck you. This is such bullshit.”

Evan lets him go and kisses him, then starts tickling his rib cage.

Amir desperately wiggles away from him, burrows under the blankets and pokes his head out warily like a cat. “Go brush your teeth _right_ now, dickbreath.”

“Alright,” Evan says agreeably, and slides off the bed.

 

 

*

 

Sunday has to roam all over the hotel before she finds a printer. She doesn’t want to ask anybody, because she has this neurotic thing about asking people for help, so she just wanders around with a fake purposeful look on her face so no one stops her. Finally in the reception area downstairs she finds an unattended one, tucked between a massive tiger orchid and a coffee maker. It says it’s Bluetooth; she hooks her tablet up and then waits anxiously as the fifteen sheets of legalese chug slowly out.

She quickly tucks them under her arm and hurries over to the front desk. “Could I possibly get, um, a manila folder?”

The nearest clerk looks up and blinks at her. “Manila?”

Oh no. Is that an American term? “Just a folder?” she says, shifting the papers and hugging them closer just in case anyone can see what they are. She isn’t normally this paranoid, but paparazzi have been stalking the hotel like bloodhounds all morning, and even standing here now, she can sense people in the lobby sneaking glances at her. “Like, to put papers in?”

“Oh!” the clerk says. “Yes, here you are, miss.”

She unearths a folder for Sunday, who thanks her and hurries back upstairs. Her palms grow sweaty as she draws closer to Louis and Liam’s room. She’s hoping her dad isn’t there.

He isn’t. Louis opens the door alone, looking surprised to see her. “Hullo little Payno,” he says. “You’ve just missed big Payno, he’s gone for a workout.”

“No, I actually wanted to talk to you,” Sunday says.

Louis opens the door wider, beckoning her in. “Everything okay?”

Sunday nods, then goes over and has a seat on the couch. It’s very soft, and she tries to let that relax her. “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to, um, give you something.”

“A present?” he says innocently, and she laughs.

“I guess it could be kind of a present,” she says. “I’ve wanted to give it to you for a while, it just felt a little more urgent, after yesterday.”

He nods. “Hard to believe that _was_ all yesterday, isn’t it? Felt like a week’s worth of nonsense.”

Sunday laughs and nods, like a puppet with her head on a string. She wishes she hadn’t drank three cups of coffee this morning, but the jet lag was killing her. Mia was right, she should have gone down with them to get some eggs and toast.

Louis starts gathering up papers and tablets that were on the couch, and she notices he’s wearing his glasses. “Wait, are you busy?” she says.

“No, no. Just working on some proposals for the bands I manage.”

“That sounds busy.”

“No, it’s all totally unnecessary,” he says, laughing and setting his things on the coffee table before sitting down beside her. He takes his glasses off and tucks them into his breast pocket. “Just keeping me brain busy.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah! I’m sure. What’s wrong, sunshine? You look so serious.”

She lets out a soft sound halfway between a laugh and an affirmation. “So, um,” she says fumblingly, clutching the folder in sweaty hands. “I have something for you… it’s mostly just like, a gesture, ‘cos I’m a legal adult, but if you did want to sign it… I mean, I, uh, I just feel like it makes sense, considering you basically raised me since I was, like, six…”

Louis lifts an eyebrow and reaches his hand out. “Can I…?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She clears her throat, finding she’s unexpectedly choked up.

Louis lets the folder fall open on his lap and starts reading, his face drawn in concentration.

Sunday is suddenly zapped by regret, afraid she’s overstepping her bounds. “It’s just like, you know. A gesture. I don’t expect —“

He puts a hand up. “Wait, wait. Are these adoption papers?”

“Yeah,” she admits.

Louis’ face lights up and crumbles at the same time. “C’mere,” he says hoarsely, and pulls her in for a hug. “Oh, angelface. Thank you.”

“You really don’t have to sign them,” she murmurs.

“No, I’d absolutely like to, if that’s alright… I just want to check with your dad first.”

“I just felt like it was something I wanted to, I dunno — I mean, you are, you know? You’re not my stepdad. John’s my stepdad… you’re really just more like my dad.”

“I know. You know I feel the same.”

Sunday nods, tensing her jaw against the lump in her throat. Her eyes fill and grow hotter until tears are prickling in them, and Louis looks choked up himself.

“Sorry,” she manages, and they both laugh.

“That’s alright,” Louis says. “Think we’re all a bit overemotional today.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

He gets up and crosses the room to start rummaging in the drawers of a fancy bureau; he unearths a gilted tissue box with the hotel’s name across the side in curling, lovely script, and brings it over to set it down between them. Sunday grabs one, dabbing at her face and then crushing it into her palm, forming a damp little ball.

“I wish you’d known how I’ve, like, artificially held myself back all these years,” Louis says. “Never quite knew how much I should act like a parent to you. Never wanted to make things more difficult between you and your mum, or for you or your dad. But I reckon in the end I ought to have just done what me instincts told me to… I could’ve nurtured you more, protected you better…”

His voice is small and sad. It kills Sunday to hear.

“I think you did fine,” she assures him.

“Just hard, as a parent. You feel like nothin’s ever enough.”

“Listen… I know you and Dad feel like you failed ‘cos I didn’t go to college, but honestly, it just wasn’t for me.”

“You can still go. Don’t write it off.”

“I know, I know…”

“We didn’t get to go,” Louis says. “We didn’t, y’know… you kids have the whole world open to you. You can do whatever you want.”

“We are,” Sunday says.

“But uni would be great for you, I think,” Louis says. “You’d meet new people, you’d learn new ideas. You’d just learn whatever you liked all day. It sounds lovely, to me.”

Sunday clears her throat. “I don’t even know if Dad thinks of it like that. I think he just feels like it’s the last thing on the good parent checklist, and he wants so bad to just check it off.”

“Oh, no, love. He doesn’t see you as a checklist. He just wants you to have every good thing he can give you, is all.”

“I know. I just feel like sometimes he tries so hard he doesn’t listen to what I’m actually saying.”

“He’s really protective of you,” Louis says. “He worries he messed up being a single parent, drove you away, all that.”

“But he didn’t! I didn’t leave because I don’t love you guys, or anything.”

“I know. I know. That’s just what he worries. He loves you so much.”

Sunday sniffles. “I know.”

“And he never wanted to get in the way of you having a relationship with your mum.”

“Maybe he should have.”

“Maybe. But you were just a wee thing, you missed her. He moved out to California just so you could see her as often as possible. He’s done his best to protect you, love. He had a hard time of it, it’s so easy for me to say things in hindsight. I got lucky with Zayn, I had a co-parent. Liam just had all these impossible choices to make for you.”

Sunday can’t stand to think about this too hard — her young, heartbroken dad, left with a little girl to raise by himself. He must have been so lonely before he got back together with Louis.

She feels like it’s her fault they grew apart somewhat as she got older. Liam’s always seemed to want to smother her to make up for Ceci, and she’s always been independent and withdrawn, which he can’t seem to help taking personally. Over and over again they’ve cycled through this, right up until she moved out to follow the eventing circuit. Liam was quietly devastated when she left — they’d had one last painful fight about her not going to college, and then the next morning when she hugged him goodbye, he just whispered “I’m sorry,” in a broken-sounding way. She managed to make it to her car, and then she put it on self-drive and cried for the entire trip to the airport.

She just feels like he has an easier time of it with the boys, and she’s always suspected that there’s something about her that makes her dad sad. Like she looks too much like her mom, or reminds him of painful aspects of himself, or something. So she does shut herself off from him a bit. It kills her, because she loves him so much, but she wants to let him be happy on the sunny side of things, with Louis and the twins. Maybe she’s overprotective of him, too.

It’s awful to know he thinks he wasn’t enough for her, or that there’s anything he could have done differently. None of it was really his fault, except for rushing into things with her mom in the first place.

“I just sometimes wish she’d have cut us off completely,” she says.

Louis smiles wryly. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but there were times I wanted to tell her to just fuck off once and for all.”

“I kind of wish you would have.”

“I know. But it wasn’t my place.”

“Yeah.”

“She’s wanted to be in your life,” Louis says. “She does love you. It was just always, you know.”

“On her terms,” Sunday says. It still hurts her to consider, but not as much as it once did. “It wasn’t about when I needed her, it was about when she wanted me.”

“Right.” Louis clears his throat. “She was so lucky, and she had no idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. You were always so sweet… the most polite little kid. Max reminds me of you, that way.”

“Does he?” she says, tickled.

Louis squeezes her shoulder. “Really, thank you for this. It means so much. But I want you to know, you didn’t have to do it. You’re part of my family, you always will be.”

“I know. I just wanted to.”

“Okay. Good.”

Sunday thinks again of something she’s been thinking of a lot since yesterday: the day that she first met her step-siblings. Liam must have already been dating Louis for a little while, because he was familiar to her by then. He had won her over by remembering that she liked lime lollipops and bringing her one almost every time he came by the house, and once he competently French braided her hair for her, explaining that he’d grown up with little sisters.

She’d known he had two kids, from photos she’d seen in magazines and on Louis’ phone, but she had never so much as spoken to them before that day. They were intimidating as a pair, all sleek dark hair, sharp eyes and elbows, and they seemed to be in constant non-verbal communication with each other.

She was silent at first, scared, but Mia decided she liked her and brought her upstairs so she could share all her toys. Amir was much quieter, but he was nice to Sunday in a way that indicated he didn’t mind if she stuck around.

“You don’t think it’ll bother Mia and Amir at all?” she says.

Louis rolls up the papers and swats her on the arm with them. “You joking?” he says, laughing. “Come on. They’ll love it. They love you.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am. So how’s this work, then? Since you’ve got two parents already?”

“I know California lets you have three legal parents, but besides that, I’m not totally sure. I just got the papers off the Internet.... I tried to read about it, but it was kind of confusing and boring.”

“I hear you. Alright. I’ll, uh, talk to your dad, and then have a chat with our lawyer. If it just entitles you to estate things, that’s fine by me.”

“Oh, I don’t want this to be about money… it’s just supposed to be symbolic.”

“I know,” Louis assures her. “But I don’t at all mind putting you in my will. There are things I’d like to leave to you, someday. So don’t worry about it.”

She nods. “I also had a thought that’s kind of morbid,” she says.

“Like me talking about my will isn’t morbid?” _Mohhhh-behd_.

“Alright, then it’s morbid thing number two,” she says with a laugh.

“Morbid thing number two, go ahead.”

“Just like, if my dad was out of town or something, and I, I don’t know, had a bad fall when I was riding… I want you with me in the hospital, and stuff. And, um. I’d rather have you make decisions for me than my mom.”

He looks taken aback. “Like, medical decisions?”

“Yeah. I just think you’d understand more, like, what I would want.” She shrugs. “See? Pretty morbid.”

Louis smiles at her. “More practical.”

“I do have to think about that stuff. I mean, it’s dangerous what I do.”

“I know, love.”

“I sign releases every time, I’ve seen people I know fall off and break their necks —“

He flinches and quickly interrupts her: “Love, love, if you ever need something like that, I’m here, I promise.”

Sunday nods, relieved.

“So, er,” Louis says, “did you get your meetings rescheduled, then? With that scout?”

“Oh! Yeah,” Sunday says. “We’re meeting in July, now.”

“This all doesn’t fuck anythin’ up for you, does it?”

“No, not at all. She was really cool about it.”

“I bet she was,” Louis says. “Bet she really wants you there, is why.”

Sunday smiles self-consciously. “I hope so. Maybe.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I’m not, I just don’t want to jinx it. If the meeting goes well, we can celebrate,” she allows.

“Alright, it’s a deal.” Louis glances down at the papers again. “Do we need a witness to watch me sign these, you think? God, I’ve got no idea.”

“A notary public, maybe? Is that what they do?”

He laughs. “Ah, we’ll let the lawyers sort it out, that’s what we pay ‘em for.”

 

*

 

At noon, Evan decides he wants to take a walk around London, despite the fact that Amir can’t come along because he’ll get hassled if he goes out in public right now. “It’s fine,” Evan says. “I’ll go alone, I just haven’t been to London in forever and I wanna explore.” Amir pouts a little, because they only have one more day together before he sets off for New York, but lets him go when he promises to bring back a present and kisses Amir on the forehead.

Mia and Sunday take the risk of sneaking out to a luxury spa so they can steam the ash out of their pores. They invite Amir along, but he’s too paranoid about getting accosted by the paparazzi, so he stays back. He hangs out with his dad, Niall and Liam, until they get a call from their digital strategist. After about five minutes he gets bored listening to dry PR business, swipes a handful of keycards from Louis’ jacket pocket and wanders down the hall to Zayn and Harry’s room, trying all the cards until one works.

“Hello,” he yells from the doorway. He doesn’t see either of them, but there’s water running in the bathroom.

There’s no one in the bedroom, either, but Harry is out on the little balcony with his sock feet kicked up on the railing. Amir peeks into the bathroom — the sink is running boiling hot, and it’s filling the room with steam. He shuts it off and goes outside.

Harry looks up at him with weary, bloodshot eyes. He’s wearing a black silk tunic that’s exposing half his chest; on anyone else his age it would look ridiculous, but he looks cool. He has a half-empty bottle of Moët and Chandon on the table in front of him, beside an empty champagne flute. “Hey,” he says hoarsely.

“Where’s Dad?”

“At a meeting.”

“Like A.A.?”

Harry nods.

“He just goes to meetings out in the world, like a normal person?”

“No. It’s a more private one, for people of a certain, y’know…” Harry drops his voice and says humorously, “ _Notoriety_.”

“Oh.” Amir sits down. There are a few bottles of nail polish lying on the glass table, too, and Harry’s fingers are half-painted.

“You lonely?” Harry asks. He says it like maybe he is, himself.

“Yeah,” Amir admits. “And bored.”

“Always a lot of waiting around, on tour.”

“Why aren’t you hanging out with my dad and them?”

Harry’s lips quirk up in a listless smile. “I’m avoiding everyone,” he says.

“I can go, if you want.”

“No, not you. I’m actually glad to see you.”

“Really?” Amir says, pleased. He and Harry have always got on well — Harry seems to enjoy taking the time to mentor him in certain ways — but he didn’t realize this could be true in a more grown-up sense, that Harry could specifically want his company. “Hey, can I finish your nails?”

Harry looks down at them in surprise, as if he didn’t realize he only made it halfway through. “Sure.”

Amir picks through the polish bottles to find the color he was using, then takes his stepfather’s hand in his own and starts painstakingly swiping a base coat onto the fingernails that haven’t been painted yet. “What have you been doing, today?”

Harry shrugs. “I was up ‘til seven with our lawyers,” he says. “Trying to stop this information bleed we have before it does any more damage. And then of course we’ve got another show in a few hours.”

“Right.”

They sit there quietly for a while as Amir paints. It’s a windy, brisk day, and he can hear the frantic flapping of the dozen or so flags that are hanging off the pub across the street.

“Are you and my dad okay?” he says.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Wait, which one?”

“The one you’re married to.”

“Oh, yeah. We’re alright.”

Amir is quiet as he picks up a Q-tip and studiously swabs a stray fleck of polish from Harry’s cuticle. “So you’re not splitting up?” he says. He thinks his dad would really flip shit if Harry left him.

“No, no,” Harry says immediately. “Don’t worry about that.”

Amir supposed it’s different, what happened between his dads, and Louis leaving. Zayn cheated, and they were having a ton of problems, anyway. Zayn and Harry seem to make each other really happy. No one else is weird enough for them; they like to be in their own little world together, pick out ridiculous sconces and go to the Met Ball and stuff. Amir can’t imagine Louis going to the Met Ball.

Zayn needs Harry, but Amir thinks Harry needs Zayn, too. Whenever they’re fighting or his dad’s out of town or something, Harry just seems kind of sad, like he doesn’t have anyone to shine for when Zayn’s not around. He can fake shine, movie-star shine, but it’s not the same. It’s not real. If you know him well enough, you can tell.

Amir finishes with a little flourish. “Ta-daaa…”

Harry examines his fingernails and smiles. “Very nice work,” he says.

“Do you have any concealer, by the way?” Amir says. “I have literally nothing with me, and I have this zit…”

Harry stands up and beckons him in, then has him sit on the bed. He goes in the bathroom, comes back out with a jar of expensive-looking concealer and a blending brush, then bends over Amir, takes him by the chin and starts expertly covering.

“So you kids are coming to the concert tonight, right?” he says.

“Yeah,” Amir says, closing his eyes while Harry works. “That’s why I wanted this covered… we always get papped.”

“Ah, ‘course.”

Amir tries not to be vain, but it’s hard not to be when people have been looking at you and taking pictures of you since you were a stupid baby. And at this point it doesn’t seem like they’ll ever stop, so the best he can do is control how he looks.

“Was last night good?” he says.

Harry makes a noncommittal noise. “I’m the wrong person to ask,” he says. “I’m the worst perfectionist. I’ve heard we were good… the fans seemed happy.”

“But what, you thought you sucked?”

“Sucked is the wrong word. I thought we weren’t as present as we could’ve been.”

“Like, mentally?”

“Yeah. Which is understandable.”

“Where’s your next show?”

“Ireland, in three days.”

“Right. I guess we can’t just follow you guys all over Europe.”

“You’re welcome to, if you want,” Harry says, then pats his cheek. “I’m done.”

Amir opens his eyes. “I mean, we could, but it wouldn’t really be practical, right?”

“Probably not. What, you don’t want to go see your aunts and grandparents and everyone? Your brothers, your sisters?”

“I do,” Amir says. “It’s just kind of boring. Like I know everything happening right now sucks, but at least it’s exciting. I don’t have anything else to do this summer. Plus I’m homeless now.”

“You’re hardly homeless. Look, someday you’ll really miss the time you looked around and saw stressed-out old people fretting about old people things, and felt like you were so separate from us,” Harry says. “Because really soon you’ll be one of us, and it isn’t better on this side of things. I promise.”

“Maybe it is, though. At least you have control over the stuff that happens.”

Harry lets out a mirthless little laugh. “Right,” he says.

“Hey, can I have the rest of your champagne?” Amir tries, figuring it’s worth a shot.

Harry’s eyes get dark. “No,” he says, then goes out on the balcony and comes back in with the bottle in his hand. He takes it into the bathroom and dumps it into the sink; Amir can hear it glugging, and smell the crisp, peachy aroma. “That was me being stupid. This is a dry room, now.”

“It’s not fair you can’t drink just ‘cos my dad can’t.”

“Nobody _needs_ to drink,” Harry mutters. “And I don’t feel comfortable handing alcohol over to you, either.”

“I wasn’t even being completely serious.”

“I know.” He appears in the doorway again, leaning on it. “That’s just the last thing I need is, y’know...”

He touches his fingertips to the bruise on his chin like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, and Amir catches the implication.

“Right,” he says.

“Do you need any hair product?” Harry says abruptly, his whole demeanor shifting, like he’s disappeared back inside himself.

“Um… yeah, actually. Pomade?”

Harry nods and heads back into the bathroom.

 

*

 

Harry and Amir hang out for a while, just chatting about fashion and music and New York. Harry does really enjoy talking to his stepson; he reminds him of both a young Zayn and a young Louis, but at the same time, neither of them. He’s this queer throwback to the 1920’s, stuck out of time. The things he yearns for have almost all but vanished, except for in some very rarefied circles.

They’re interrupted after a while by Louis, which is unexpected. He comes in carrying a tablet in his hand and looking unusually serious. Harry avoids eye contact with him.

“Hi there,” Louis says to his son. “Notice you stole my keycards.”

“I was bored,” Amir says.

“Classic criminal motive. What are you two up to?”

“Just talking,” Harry says.

“Yeah? Where’s your boyfriend got off to, Amir?”

“He went out for a walk,” Amir says. “He wanted to explore.”

“Fancies a wander, does he?” Louis nods, then rubs at his small, graying goatee. “Kiddo, could you ‘scuse us a mo?”

“Wow,” Amir says. “You’re kicking me out?”

“Only briefly.”

“Nobody loves me.”

“I love you dearly,” Louis says patiently. “Now get going. Harry and I need a private moment to discuss something.”

“So formal,” Amir says, and bounces to his feet. “Yeah, you can have a _moment_. I’ll be in the _drawring room_ ,” he says, in a ridiculous exaggeration of his own faint British accent.

Louis snorts and tousles his hair as he goes by. “He’s in a silly mood today,” he says, once the door has shut behind him.

“Reckon he’s relieved to be okay,” Harry says. Louis doesn’t answer, so he adds, “Sorry, didn’t mean to remind you.”

“It’s alright,” Louis says, coming over to sit on the foot of the bed. “I know you were worried too.”

“Of course.”

Louis nods. “So,” he says. “I wanted to give you something...”

He holds out the tablet to Harry, who takes it. It’s a very thin one — probably doesn’t have any more than 50 gigabytes of storage, the kind people keep digitized documents on.

“It’s a copy of my journal,” Louis says, looking at the tablet instead of at him. “The one I kept when Zayn went back to rehab... when we were separated.”

Harry’s so surprised you could knock him over with a feather. “You kept a journal?”

Louis nods, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “I didn’t feel like anyone would understand,” he says, “so I just wrote it all down instead of talking to anybody.”

“Lou… I can’t possibly read this.”

“Sure you can.”

“But it’s so personal.”

“It’s okay. I was looking it over this morning, and it doesn’t even feel like me, it feels like someone else, honestly. I can’t relate to that guy anymore. But I thought you might be able to, a bit.”

Harry hesitantly wakes the tablet up and opens the only file on it: a pdf of about a hundred pages. Longhand loopy script he recognizes as Louis’ fills his eyes, then undergoes an automatic transformation into more readable Garamond text.

“I have to tell you something first,” Louis says, and clears his throat. “I, um, I was pregnant when I wrote a lot of this.”

Harry looks up at him, confused, doing some quick mental math. “But…”

“I got pregnant for a third time, when me and Zayn were separated. I had a miscarriage.” Louis meets his eyes for the first time. “I just want to warn you, ‘cos I do mention it in there. I was, ah — I was planning to, y’know, have an abortion. So I was actually relieved about it, honestly. But I didn’t want you to be blindsided by miscarriage stuff.”

“God, Louis, I’m sorry. You never said.”

“It’s alright,” Louis says, his eyes getting flinty. “Ancient history.”

“Does, uh…” Harry softly clears his throat, hesitant. “Zayn knows about this, right?”

Flintier, now. “Of course he does.”

“Just making sure.”

“Your husband knows, mine does as well.”

“Not the kids?”

“No,” Louis says, rather sharply. “I don’t want them to ever know about that.”

Harry can understand why. It’s so murky, this stuff — this business of creating life, creating death. It’s such a mental burden. And your kids and your partner, who should understand the most, they always understand the least; they always bring their own insecurities and emotions to it. He knows how defensive Louis is about his older kids thinking they were unwanted, how much of his identity is now bound up in being a good dad; the one thing he was able to make a consistent life’s work out of.

“Understood,” Harry says, not wanting to do further poking at a wound Louis clearly doesn’t want him going anywhere near. He looks down at the .pdf and starts scrolling through it.

_Feel really alone today… Haven’t talked to another adult in two days. I keep ignoring texts from everybody. I don’t want to tell anyone what’s going on._

Scroll.

_I know it’s too early for it, but I keep having this nightmare where I feel the baby kick..._

Scroll.

_I don’t know what to do. I know Zayn loves me, and I still love him, but I don’t think it’s enough. It doesn’t stop him from hurting me. I just feel like such a fucking idiot…_

_I just want to ask him was it worth it? Was that five minutes of getting your dick wet worth it, to make a fool out of me and put the final nail in the coffin of things, here? But I can’t say anything like that to him, cause I’m supposed to not be stressing him out._

_Maybe this is karma for way back when he found out about me and Liam and he wasn’t supposed to yell at me cos I was pregnant. He yelled anyway though._

_I’m feeling so guilty about that shit lately, in a way I never did when it was happening. I fucked things up with us, I did, we got off to a bad start with the whole Liam thing. I was selfish… after what he put me through, I felt like I didn’t owe him anything. So what, we were having a kid together, fucking whatever. I had such little respect for that concept, I’ll admit it. I don’t hold fathers in very high regard._

_But that echoed through our whole relationship. I’m not saying him cheating’s my fault, cos no one can say I didn’t try to make it work. I just feel like maybe he never really believed that I loved him._

Scroll.

_Mia kills me. I can tell she knows something’s going on and she thinks she has to take care of me. She reminds me of me when I was that age… the way I was with my mum. I remember watching what she went through, and thinking I’d know what to look out for when I grew up. That I’d never get married for the wrong reasons or anything like that. Ha!_

_I try to force Mims to just be a kid and run around with her little pals, I put on a happy face all day long, but she sees right through me._

_It’s hard being all they have. I know they miss Zayn… so do I._

Scroll.

_Talked to Zayn for like an hour on the phone tonight… he sounds alright but who knows. That was the longest in a while that I’ve even been allowed to talk to him for. I don’t know what they’re doing to him over there, it’s like this top-secret program. You’d think they’re training him for the fucking CIA the way they won’t tell me anything and limit his phone time. What am I going to do, give him a beer through the telephone? Fucking idiots. Makes me worry. If they keep this up I might have to go break him out._

_It’s awful talking to him when he doesn’t know I’m pregnant. He really is good at taking care of me when I am. Now I wake up and barf and I don’t have anyone to make me feel better, or even a baby to look forward to. It’s just like having a month-long stomach flu._

_Sometimes I get so tired I think I should give up fighting, stay with him and have this kid. I’d come around to wanting it eventually, wouldn’t I? It’s always a nice thought, a sweet little baby in your arms who loves you and needs you… and I love our other two so much. I just wish I’d had them with somebody I could actually see myself growing old with. Feel like we failed them._

Scroll.

_Is it me that made him drink? I think about that a lot. He wasn’t a drunk in the band, although he did too many drugs toward the end there, but so did I. Even perfect Harry’s still a cokehead. We all drank a lot I guess… Liam nearly had a problem, but he managed to pump the brakes before it got serious. Why can’t Zayn manage it? What’s this demon that takes him over?_

_I mean, IS it me??? Did I do this, getting pregnant and making him feel like he had to marry me, and all the pressure that came along with that? I said that to this therapist in our little intake interview thing, and she looked at me like I lost the plot. But I have to wonder._

Scroll.

_I’ve been writing loads, still. I haven’t written like this in ages. I finished the album so fast, faster than I’ve ever done anything, and I’ve kept writing so much after, it’s just been pouring out. I’m going to have like ten full songs I can sell back to the label. I’ve actually made pretty good money doing that these last few years… I should save them for a third album, but some of them are too personal for me to ever record myself, if that makes sense?_

_Well who cares what you think makes sense anyway, you’re just a diary. I am in charge here. Ha ha._

Scroll.

_Spent last night torturing myself watching that documentary about Amy. I kept thinking about Zayn, that voice he has and how he’s just never got on well with fame or touring. It’s my worst nightmare for him to drink himself to death like she did. No closure for us, no chance for him to see his kids grow up, or find what it is that makes him happy. Just oblivion. And all these people who enabled him, exploited him, they’d come to his funeral and pretend to be sad. I wouldn’t be able to stand it._

_I worry about our kids… all the reasons I wanted to have his babies, the things I like about him, all the same things I see in them... I don’t want them to grow up and struggle the way he has._

Harry sets the tablet down. It was mesmerizing reading, but that last entry stung him with a strange combination of outsider envy and insider terror. He has his own Zayn baby, after all, and though Marlena has so far been nothing but simple and sweet, she’s only wee, still. Eight years old is practically a blank slate. He has his own foibles he doesn’t want her to inherit, and there’s the viral infection of childhood celebrity to contend with, too.

It’s almost a relief that he knows nothing about Toni’s birth parents. He doesn’t have anything specific to fear. She’s just Toni.

If Harry’s honest with himself, he thought Zayn’s relapse would never come. A shameful part of him always thought he was just better for Zayn than Louis was: more supportive, more reasonable and less needy. He thought those qualities would buoy Zayn and allow him to remain his best, most sober self. But no — Harry could not be perfect enough to smother all his husband’s demons, could not be perfect enough to make Zayn want to try for him in a way he never quite managed to try for Louis.

The raw emotion on display in Louis’ writing put that idea to bed once and for all. Leave it to Louis to write so honestly, and to willingly hand over that honesty, half as a calculated chess move and half as a sweet act of reconciliation. Harry respects him more right now than he has in years.

He looks up at Louis, who gives him a small smile.

“Thank you,” Harry says. “I’m really, um. I’m touched that you’d trust me with this.”

Louis nods. “Just, what you said to me when we fought… I think that you could use a bit of perspective. I felt alone, and guilty, and worried about me kids… like I’m guessin’ you do right now. And if he does maybe have to end up going back to rehab… I thought it might be a bit of comfort for you to have this.”

Harry’s throat tightens at the very idea of Zayn returning to rehab, something he’s been repressing all morning.

There are so many things he wants to say. He wants to beg Louis to understand what he could never get him to once in the last twenty-four years — that he didn’t mean to go away. He didn’t mean to pull back and become what Louis sees him as now: an aloof, elusive, remote creature, a sphinx, emotionless by choice, with little love in his heart for the boy who was once his best friend.

When they were still quite young, the world had taken Harry away, and Louis was so hurt by him willingly going that he never even tried to take him back. And then they each fell in love with Zayn, who, like a mirror, has reflected the worst of them back onto their relationship with each other. But Harry never asked for any of that.

“I shouldn’t have said the things I did,” Harry finally says. It’s weak, but it’s what he can manage. “I was shooting the messenger, being a prick. I provoked you on purpose.”

Louis smiles wider. “I let myself be provoked.”

“Still.”

“I’ve been a bit possessive of him. I doubt you, sometimes, which is unfair. So let’s call it even, yeah?”

“I’d be happy to.”

“I don’t want to let him to come between us anymore,” Louis says. “Never wanted him to in the first place.”

“I know. I didn’t either.”

Harry extends his hand, and Louis shakes it.

“One thing,” he adds, then glances back at the tablet, scrolls up, and reads aloud with a chuckle: “‘Even perfect Harry’s still a cokehead’?”

Louis winces. “Yeah, there’s one or two bitchy things about you in there. Don’t take it too hard.”

“That’s alright… I was a bit of a cokehead, admittedly.”

“A bit?”

“Shut it,” he warns, and they laugh.

*

 

After he gives the tablet to Harry, Louis decides he might as well continue on making emotionally difficult deliveries, and fetches the adoption papers Sunday had given him before returning to Niall’s room.

As luck would have it, he finds his husband there alone, watching Sky Sports from the couch. Niall is out on the balcony, talking on the phone.

“Poor Nialler’s got to talk to some jobsworth at his insurance company,” Liam tells him as he walks in. “I guess if your house burns down, they’ve got all sorts of questions for you…”

“So we’ve got that to look forward to,” Louis says, dropping onto the couch next to him and clapping a hand to his thigh.

“Really hope we haven’t, but I reckon it’s too much to ask that it’s still standing. I think he was gonna go golf to de-stress, but he couldn’t get a tee time… plus Harry didn’t want to go with him.”

Louis nods, barely listening. “Hey… can I talk to you about something?”

“Oh God,” Liam groans, muting the television. “Could we have one hour of this tour that’s just nice and lighthearted?”

“What? All I said was can I talk to you.”

“You think I can’t read you by now?”

“Well, can we have some serious talks the day after our house probably burned down and half our kids nearly died and Zayn’s relapsed and Harry and I got in a fuckin’ fistfight?”

“Yeah, babe! Go ahead, sorry.”

“It isn’t bad, I promise,” Louis says. “I’m just not entirely sure how you’ll feel about it, which is unusual.”

Liam smiles. “Try me.”

“Sunday, ah... she asked if I could adopt her.”

“Adopt her?” he repeats, brow knitting.

“Like as an adult, apparently that’s a thing,” Louis rushes to say. “She printed up papers and everything.”

Liam nods. His dark eyes grow intense as he seems to mull this over.

“I just wanted to run it by you,” Louis says. “I want to sign them, especially as she’s of age now, so it’s not quite as big a deal, y’know? She said it wouldn’t change anything with you and Ceci, it’d just, like, be adding me on, I s’pose?”

Liam continues to nod, but still doesn’t answer.

“Bit like the paperwork adding Zayn back in the band, I reckon,” Louis adds in a frantic attempt at humor, and to his relief, Liam laughs. “I’ll consult the lawyers, but if it just means there’s a bigger legal tie between the two of us, I think that’s a nice idea. And I’d like to do it for symbolic reasons, too.”

He hands him the folder. Liam examines the papers inside.

“Lad,” Louis prods, holding his breath waiting for a reaction.

Liam makes a soft sound in the back of his throat and then drops his hand to cover Louis’, squeezing him. “You’ve got my blessing, of course,” he says. “I mean, y’know — you’ve been a parent to her. You’ve loved her as your own. It’s something I’ve maybe, um, failed to appreciate properly… but I know it’s meant the world to Sunday, having you.”

Louis smiles at him and then drops into his arms, resting his head against his chest. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Liam plays with his hair. “What’d you expect me to say?”

“Dunno. Just in the past this has sometimes, ah. Been an issue between us.”

“Oh, we’re so far past all that,” Liam murmurs. “Aren’t we? I mean, Ceci is who she is… I had to do what I had to do at the time, but it’s said and done, right? Sunday’s an adult now, and they don’t have much of a relationship. So that’s that.”

“Yeah…”

“I never did give you enough credit, Tommo, I don’t think. I’m sorry. Thank you for raising my daughter with me.” Liam’s voice gets rough.

“Oh, Liam,” Louis says, getting a little choked up himself. “How could I not?”

“Her asking you to, y’know… I mean, that’s the best affirmation you could get, right?”

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs.

“And after yesterday… I dunno. Just sort of feeling like all the petty stuff doesn’t matter so much.”

“That’s how I feel, too.”

Liam clears his throat. “I just wish she talked to me more,” he says. “I sort of wish she came to me with this before you. That’s all.”

“Oh, babe, it wasn’t like that. I think, ah… she just didn’t know how to approach you about something like that. She was worried how you’d take it, I think she reckoned I’d be able to phrase it to you better than she could.”

Liam nods, his face still drawn. “She’s just barely told me anything lately.”

“They go through phases and things, you know they do. Remember two years ago, Amir barely told me anything… our relationship’s so much better now. Honestly, maybe this was a step toward wanting to warm things up with you, even if it’s sort of an odd way to do it? Maybe it’s her trying to remind us she’s still part of the family, after she’s been away on the road so much…”

Liam leans in to kiss his cheek, and they sit there in quiet for a moment, nuzzling.

They hear a sliding glass door shut, and Niall comes back in, swearing under his breath. He stops in the little sitting room area and looks at them, seeming concerned. “What’s all this?” he exclaims. “Why’s everybody been huggin’ and cryin’ all day with these serious looks on their faces? It’s like we’ve lost X-Factor all over again!”

Liam and Louis start laughing. “Leave us alone!” Louis cries. “We’re all a bit traumatized, alright, and’ve had like two hours of sleep to boot…”

Liam wraps his arms around Louis’ waist and drags him more onto his lap. “Yeah, why don’t you leave us alone, Niall,” he says in his randy voice, and kisses the crook of Louis’ neck. Louis giggles, ticklish.

“This is _my_ room!”

“Well, you’re not using that bed for anything,” Louis teases.

“You’re all terrible,” Niall says, laughing. “All four of ya. Worst set of bastards I ever met in me life. And when we get to Ireland, I’m gonna have Winnie over the hotel and nail her in _your_ bed, see how you like that.”

“Don’t say _nail_ her!” Liam says. “That’s your wife, mate, be a gentleman!”

“Sorry. I’ll make tender love to my wonderful wife in your bed.”

“Much better,” Louis says. “Liam, you can talk about nailing me if you like, I think it’s funny.”

“I’ll do you one better than talkin’ about it,” Liam says, and growls in his ear, making him tickle and tingle all over.

“What’s gotten into you?” Louis giggles.

Niall makes a disgusted face at them. “What happened to being a gentleman?”

“I can’t be a gentleman to Louis, he’ll just take the piss out of me for it,” Liam explains.

Louis grins. “Wanna go back to ours?”

“Ye-es,” Liam says, getting to his feet with a groan and pulling Louis along. “We’ll, uh, see you later, Niall.”

“Yeah, get out of here, freaks,” Niall says amiably. “Go have a moment to yourselves. Maybe it’ll make tonight’s show better... we’ve got to have at least one of the married couples getting along.”

Louis pauses as Liam’s dragging him along. “You think Harry and Zayn won’t be?”

“Why would they?” Niall says absentmindedly, waving his watch at the TV to change the channel. “You saw yourself how upset Harry is… They were pretending everythin’s normal at breakfast, but Harry’s just sat there grinding his teeth, and Zayn didn’t say two words the whole time. It was like breakfast with my parents.”

“They’ll get past it,” Louis assures him.

“You sure?”

“I actually am, yeah. Just a feeling I've got.”

“Well, I guess you’d know better than most,” Niall says.

“I would,” Louis says confidently. “Payno, come on,” he adds, fending off Liam, who’s trying to give him a wet willy. “Alright, alright…”

 

*

 

They stagger into their own room and collapse onto the bed together, taking a moment to stretch out their sore forty-something muscles, and then Louis glances at his watch. “Alright,” he says. “One-thirty. We’ve got time.”

“Even if we don’t, I’m still fucking you,” Liam tells him, yanking Louis’ hoodie up over his head and dragging his jeans down off his arse. He leans over him and starts playing at Louis’ nipples and flicking his tongue into his ear, which drives Louis absolutely bonkers. He’s already stiff against Liam’s leg.

“Yeah, fuck me,” Louis pants. Liam rubs his beard on Louis’ throat, and he moans and shivers. “Fuck me good.”

“I always do, don’t I?”

Louis grins up at the ceiling. “Yeah you do, Daddy.”

Liam laughs softly as he kisses him and ruts against him. Louis loves him all possessed and single-minded like this. He’s only found Liam hotter as he gets older, the way his face has thinned out and how there’s authoritative gray in his hair and beard. It’s made his eyes seem so much more intense. Sometimes when they’re in a meeting or something and Liam is concentrating really hard, Louis still can get a bit weak looking at him. Then Liam will say something goofy or laugh and the spell is broken, he’s just cute again. But for those brief moments in between, Louis fantasizes about a hard-faced version of his husband who’ll tell him he’s been very bad and truss him up like a Christmas goose to be spanked and fucked.

Right now that really is what he wants, with all the guilt he’s got eating him alive.

Liam seems to get that, too. They’ve known each other long enough and been married so long that he can always pick up on Louis’ moods. He’s manhandling him, groping him hard and squeezing him with powerful hands, exactly the way Louis likes. He grabs him by the arse and then pushes two lubed fingers into him. Louis sighs happily, begging for more.

“Yeah?” Liam murmurs, kissing his neck some more.

“Yeah, yeah… want your cock.”

“D’you deserve cock?”

He rubs at Louis’ prostate with a finger, and Louis moans again, clutching him.

“Please,” he purrs, wrapping his arms around Liam’s shoulders and trailing his fingers up the back of his neck. “Do you deserve to fuck me?”

“Always.”

“Then get that big dick out, I wanna touch it.”

“Why’s it all about my dick?” Liam pouts, rubbing at him harder and making him shudder with anticipation.

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s also about your pretty face and your nice body.”

Liam laughs. “You prick.”

He shimmies his own jeans and boxers off, and Louis reaches down to grab a thick handful of him. Liam’s willy is as familiar as his own by now, but that’s nice in its own way. He feels like it belongs to him, too; he calls it loving pet names and still plays with it when they shower together.

“This feels like it wants to be inside me,” Louis murmurs, running his thumb over the head, rubbing at the slit. Liam moans and rolls his hips against Louis. “I think you want me too bad to play games.”

“Fuck off,” Liam breathes, squeezing more lube into his hand and rubbing it onto himself, then pushing hard into Louis, who closes his eyes and groans at the familiar burn and then pulses of pleasure.

“Look at that,” Louis sighs, “did exactly what I told you to —“

“Shut up…”

“Whipped.”

Liam drags his prickly beard over Louis’ throat again and fucks him harder. He spreads his legs wide for him and wraps his arms around his back, clutching at his shoulder with one hand, his wedding band pressed into Liam’s deltoid. He moans extra loud for him the way he knows Liam likes, letting out theatrical breathy sighs.

He’s so grateful for Liam in this moment, especially after glancing back through that depressing journal. He doesn’t think he could have built with Zayn what he now has with Liam. And he loves how their bond has grown and deepened over the years, branched out like roots pushing through the soil.

Now that their house is probably gone, Louis is wondering if they should start fresh somewhere else in California. He doesn’t want to bring the boys back to England, tear them completely from their friends and be that far away from his other kids — plus, as much as he misses his country, he likes having an ocean between him and the dozen-plus in-laws he’s got who love to give him input on his parenting.

He’s thinking now about that simpler life he had dreamed aloud about to Zayn twenty years ago, when he was pregnant with Amir. Having a little garden, hanging up the washing on a line. The boys really seem to like Phoebe’s chickens and her ornery old goat. Maybe it would be good for them to have a bit of land at their disposal, creeks and things for the twins to explore in. It would be a more honest childhood. And Louis would love to get the fuck out of Los Angeles once and for all, especially since these wildfires only seem to be getting worse.

When Liam has spent himself and come inside Louis, gone heavily limp on top of him and then reached down to take Louis’ rock-hard cock in his hand and stroke it, Louis dreamily murmurs, “How d’you feel about moving to a place with a bit of land? Couple animals, a big garden for you?”

Liam’s quiet for a moment. “That sounds nice,” he says in a husky voice. “Or we could just live on the boat…”

“Payno, we’re not living on a fuckin’ boat, you doof.”

“C’mon, the boys would love it.”

“Absolutely not.”

 

*

 

After they’ve finished and are lying there, happy, tired, and splattered with each other’s come, Louis gets his phone off the bedside table.

“Look at this,” he says. It’s a video he found when he was looking for the folder containing his digitized journal. He holds the phone up to Liam’s face, so he can see.

Liam takes it from him and taps play.

It’s from twelve years ago: Louis looking at himself in the mirror, cupping his hand to his middle so his black t-shirt is flush against his baby bump. “I’m hiding in the bathroom from me kids,” he whispers, “‘cos they won’t quit fucking fighting with each other… I’m leaving Payno to handle it, poor bastard, but whatever. Anyway, uh.” Louis steps closer to the mirror and points out a spot under his rib cage, and then another below his belly button. “I just thought this was neat… I’m gettin’ kicked double. One here, and one here.” He’s smiling wide as he says it. “I’ll probably get sick of that properly soon, but it’s cool for now.”

The video ends there, and Liam beams as if Louis just handed him a piece of gold. He leans over and kisses him on the stubbly cheek. “Thanks, love.”

“Happy anniversary,” Louis murmurs.

“That’s not for two weeks.”

“Happy early anniversary, then.”

“I’ll take it. So what else do you have that you’re not showing me?”

“Well,” Louis says, “when you and I have a funny banter, sometimes I write it down in me phone and keep it, and I look at ‘em later when I want to smile about something, or when one of us’s out of town and I miss you. Been doing that ever since we were dating.”

“Aw, Tommo,” Liam says, looking touched. “I’d love to read those.”

“Of course… they’re partly your intellectual property, yeah?”

Liam laughs. “Hey,” he says, patting Louis on the chest.

“Yeah?”

“I love how much you love our kids.”

Louis smiles. “What counts as ‘ours’?”

“Yours, mine, ours. All the kids we raised together.”

Louis rolls over into his arms, pressing his face to the crook of Liam’s shoulder. Liam wraps his arms around him, holding him tightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Liam murmurs.

Louis realizes, then, that Liam is tacitly trying to thank him for wanting to adopt Sunday. His sudden desire for intimacy wasn’t out of nowhere, and he isn’t tense with Louis for overstepping — he’s actually grateful to him, he’s feeling sweet and affectionate because of it. The dickdown and sloppy eager blowjob were a thank you. Relieved, Louis nuzzles Liam’s throat.

“Thanks, love,” he whispers. “I know I’ve had my meltdowns about, um… I dunno, lost opportunities over the years, but I’m happy with being proud of all of them, I promise.”

Liam strokes his hair. “I know,” he says. “I do feel like maybe it’s part my fault… I mean, you made two records when you were with Zayn, and you never made another…”

Louis shrugs, feeling somewhat prickly and embarrassed. “It just got away from me,” he says. “Not anyone’s fault.”

“Yeah,” Liam says. “I guess.”

“I also, like — you know when I write, it’s about shit that happened to me, and with both those albums, I had so much more shit to pull from.”

“Really? More than you do from our marriage?”

“God, of course! I mean, break it down — first one, I’d broke up with me girlfriend of like, four years. Had a baby at twenty-four, not anything I’d exactly planned. Dated Zayn, got dumped and left behind knocked up, got back together with him, had serious feelings for you in the meantime. Band broke up. Had another baby, got married, got torn apart in the public opinion. Then my second record, y’know — I’d had this intense, up and down relationship with me husband, he’s got a drinking problem, now he’s cheated on me, we’re separated and looking like we’ll get a divorce. It was like, writing was how I made sense of all that shit. After that, the fuck am I gonna write about? ‘I’m happy with Liam. We’ve got five kids, it’s exhausting, but I’m happy.’ Not too dramatic, that.”

Liam’s chuckling. “So you’re saying I’ve bored you for the last fifteen years straight.”

“No, numpty, that’s not what I’m saying. Christ, we really have been together fifteen years, haven’t we?”

“We have. Early summertime, must’ve been, ‘cos we’d been together for a few months by my birthday.”

“Right,” Louis murmurs. “Our tiny little honeymoon time.”

“Yeah, we got serious a bit fast, didn’t we,” Liam says. “Now we’re coming up on the big number ten? God. We’re so old.”

Louis draws a circle in his husband’s chest hair. “I just knew,” he says, and glances up at Liam’s sweet face. “I mean, we both did.”

“I think I sort of always knew,” Liam says, all serious. “Even when, y’know — even after you dumped me, and I was so upset with you —“

“— you were _what?_ Liam! You never told me that!”

“Well, half upset with you, half upset with myself.”

“Still…”

“I couldn’t stop taking your phone calls, though,” Liam says. “It tore me up like crazy to even hear your voice, but I had to talk to you. I couldn’t — it would’ve been so much worse to think we were just never gonna talk again.”

“Why’ve you never told me that before? I feel like a right prick.”

Liam smiles at him. “I sort of thought that was an automatic assumption, considering what all went down.”

“You know I was suffering too, right? I never wanted to turn you away like I did.”

“Oh, I know.”

Louis curls up into the crook of his shoulder, kissing him on his prickly, freshly-shaved neck. “Liam?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I ended up pushing you toward Ceci. I don’t want to sound arrogant, but — I mean, I know you wanted to start a family, and I, y’know…”

“Left me and took your baby with you?” Liam jokes.

“— well, a bit, yeah! And you two just sort of… and she ended up being all wrong for you, and we weren’t even talking, really, so I couldn’t tell you that she was… God, that tore me up. The day Niall told me you were having a baby with _her_ , I was just, like, spinning.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! And it was on me wedding day! Right after I married Zayn, I found that out. And I was pregnant, too, and I just… I dunno, I blocked it out.”

“Jesus, I never knew that.”

Louis shrugs.

“Look, don’t be sorry… I got Sunday out of the whole thing. It’s alright. Life just sort of works itself out, no need to beat ourselves up over things.”

“But I could’ve protected you,” Louis murmurs, splaying his arm out over Liam’s chest. Liam reaches up to lace their fingers together.

“Hey,” Liam says, and lays their intertwined hands over his heart. “You fixed this, okay? So don’t worry about old Payno. I could die right now a happy man.”

Louis, verklempt, just says, “Well, don’t.”

Liam laughs. “I won’t.”

They’re quiet again.

“You could do a third record and tour it, though,” Liam says. “I’m not doing much but producing, lately… once we finish this tour, if you’d like to. I can take the boys to basketball and things like that.”

“Let’s see. We’ve got so much going on at the moment, I can’t think about that.”

“Sure. It’s just you’re such a lovely writer, Lou, and I know we got the chance to work together again on this album, and I loved that. But I wish I could put you back in the spotlight, y’know? I had so much fun writing that solo for you, ‘cos you’ve just got that voice that makes everything so sincere and heartbreaking…” Liam trails his finger down Louis’ cheek, and Louis smiles at him, flattered. “You do so much for the band, and for your clients, and A&R for Simon, and writing for other people — wouldn’t it be nice if you could actually get the chance to tour your own album? Just you, nobody else?”

“I performed my music, a bit,” Louis murmurs. “I did a benefit concert, I did appearances, I did X Factor… played a festival with Zayn…”

“It isn’t the same, though.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I know you… you love to perform. You love the crowd energy, hearing people sing along and seeing their excitement. So…”

“So, what?”

“I just don’t want you to have regrets in life.”

Now it’s Louis’ turn to pet Liam’s hair. “I’m probably a bit scared,” he admits. “I worry nobody cares about me anymore. Worry I’m too old now to make the music I like to make.”

“You aren’t! And you’d bring so much more to it now than you did in your twenties. You’ve got so much more experience in life and songwriting and everything. People would love it, I swear, they’d be crying in their cars like they did over your second one.”

“Oh, c’mon…”

“No, you come on! I read the reviews for that record, alright? It touched people, it did. It touched me, I know that much.”

“Okay,” Louis whispers. “I’ll think about it.”

“If it helps,” he jokes, “I can cheat on you, give you something to write about.”

Louis’ heart drops through his gut at the mere suggestion. “Don’t say that, seriously, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

“Tommo, you know I’d never in ten billion years.”

“Well don’t even joke,” he says pitifully.

“It was at Zayn’s expense, not yours.”

“Not even then.”

“Bad joke,” Liam apologizes. He buries his face against his neck, blowing raspberries on him and making him laugh. “LT3!” he cheers. “I wanna write on it. And I’m gonna do remixes.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Can I be a feature?”

“Of course, lad.”

“We’re gonna win so many Brits.”

 

*

 

When the time comes to head to London Stadium, a tight phalanx of bodyguards escorts all nine of them downstairs (including Evan, who has never experienced this level of fame up close before and seems absolutely tickled by it) and toward a side entrance. Security kicked all the paparazzi out of the lobby an hour ago, but there’s still looky-loo guests hanging around, and flashes go off as they pass the reception area and head into the hall.

Harry gives a big wave to no one in particular, and the flashes increase.

Security stops them while they go clear the hallway, and they hang back. There’s a sort of awkward silence permeating the air; Louis looks around and notices almost everybody seems lost in thought. The guests in the lobby are noticeably still and quiet, too, like they’re trying to eavesdrop.

Sunday clears her throat. “How do you guys feel about tonight? Good?”

The band exchanges glances and sort of gives a collective shrug.

“Good,” Liam affirms, and they lapse into silence again.

Mia, who’s stretching her hamstring on the wall, lights up with a mischievous look that always signals trouble. “Hey,” she says, “remember that movie that Harry made out with Sunday’s mom in?”

There may as well be an audible record scratch. Sunday chokes on a breath and coughs, Amir and Niall start laughing, and Louis stifles a grin. Liam tucks his lips inside his mouth, hiding the rest of his expression under his beard.

“Yasmeen,” Zayn says, shooting her a look.

“Sorry,” she says, grinning. “Just trying to break the tension.”

Harry glances at Louis, looking wryly exasperated. He doesn’t even like having that film brought up — on top of being personally embarrassing, it was a box office disappointment, and didn’t net him the anticipated Oscar or Golden Globe nomination. Only a SAG award.

Louis shrugs at him. “Mia just likes the sound of her own voice,” he reminds everyone present.

“Hey,” Mia complains, but her eyes are twinkling in her gamine face. “Niall’s laughing!”

“I’m not,” Niall says, quickly sobering and wiping his eyes. “Just a bit punchy. Hey, I’ve got a better one — remember The Wanted?”

The band cracks up laughing while the kids look at them, nonplussed.

“What’s The Wanted?” Amir says.

“Exactly,” Zayn tells him, and Louis is sent into fresh giggles.

Security comes back, then, beckoning them forward. When they turn the corner, they notice two silhouetted figures standing at the end of the hall in front of the doors — they all squint to see who they are, then Niall lets out a happy yell and bolts toward them, which makes them realize it’s Winnie and Jamie.

He picks up Jamie and gives him a big bear hug, then drops him sort of unceremoniously to the ground and wraps his arms around his wife, kissing her.

“Oh, there’s my fella,” Winnie says, laughing. Everyone’s smiling, watching them.

“What’re you doing here?” Niall exclaims. “I thought you were gonna meet me when we got into Ireland…”

Winnie shrugs. “We wanted to see you,” she says with a grin.

Louis wonders if she came because of all the tumult with the band — maybe she figured they need more allies right now. That would be sweet of her, if she did. He leans toward Liam and whispers, “Reckon her ears were burning, earlier?”

“Hush,” Liam says, laughing.

“Oh, let me have a joke, you know I love Win…”

They all gather at the doors, and security goes out to check that they’re clear to exit. Mia grabs up Jamie and squeezes him in a hug. Jamie smiles wide; he loves Mia.

 “You guys gonna join us in the WAGs section?” she says, setting him back down.

“Yeah, why not,” Winnie says, laughing. “You know, I’ve hardly seen Niall play with you boys? What is it, love — once or twice?”

“Yeah, can’t be more than twice,” Niall says.

“Can I come up on stage with you, Da?” Jamie says.

“Noo, I’m afraid that’s just a solo Niall thing,” Niall says, grinning.

Jamie pouts.

“You can hang out with us, Jamie,” Mia says. “We’re gonna throw water bottles at them.”

“Sorry, you’re going to _what?”_ Harry says.

Mia ignores him. “Guys, hey,” she addresses to Sunday, Amir and Evan. “It’s England, we can all have a beer.”

“Ugh, stadium beer’s piss, though,” Niall says.

“Ooh, look who’s too good for an honest beer, now!” Winnie chides him. Louis laughs.

“One,” Zayn says, and they all turn to look at him where he’s leaning against the hallway wall, holding up a finger. “ _One_ beer each.”

“You can’t stop us when you’re up on stage,” Amir says cheekily.

“Watch me,” Zayn says, in his don’t-fuck-with-me-I-am-your-father voice.

 

*

 

Harry and Zayn end up alone in a car again; it just works out that way.

It’s gloomy out. It was threatening to rain, before, but never did. The sky remains threatening though, low and gray, heavy with discontent. Harry watches the city go by out the window, his cheek pressed to the glass.

“Hey,” Zayn says to him after they’ve been on the road for a few minutes.

Harry looks over at him. He looks heartbreakingly handsome. He has that haunted look in his dark eyes that always pulls Harry in.

“C’mere,” Zayn says.

Harry hesitates a moment, then obliges. He crosses the seats and settles onto his husband, face in the crook of his neck and a leg draped over one of his. Zayn wraps his arms around him and buries his nose in Harry’s hair.

Harry reaches up and grabs for the pendant hanging from Zayn’s neck, then closes his fist tight around it.

“We don’t have to talk,” Zayn says. “I just want you to know I’m gonna be okay.”

“Okay,” Harry murmurs. “And I want you to know… I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Zayn says, and kisses him on the head.

 

STRATFORD, JUNE 24, 2036

Compared to the first show, the second one is smashing.

Maybe they just needed that first concert for the chemistry between the five of them to gel again, or some time to recover from the trials of yesterday, but even sleep-deprived they put on a hell of a show. Not just the married couples are in perfect sync — all five of them are, like they’re individual moving gears on a greater mechanism. Like they used to be.

Harry is half-champagne tipsy and completely fucking exhausted, but he pours his heart and soul into performing. He doesn’t know what else to do other than that. He stalks the stage like a jaguar, moving every single moment. If he stopped, he doesn’t think he could go on.

Liam is in great form, too, belting to the sky, singing their new material with the same confidence he brings to the old stuff. He’s done a good job preserving his voice, and it shows. He sounds more like his younger self than the rest of them. Niall and Louis do the best job of connecting with the crowd, pouring light and love out of themselves, beaming at everyone and dancing around, giggling with each other.

Zayn remains the quietest. Like last night, he seems wary of getting on the mic, although he comes over to Harry plenty to whisper to him. But every time he has a solo, he brings such raw emotion to it that the entire stadium seems to stop and quiet the way they sometimes do for Louis. It’s like they can all tell he needs a little tenderness right now, that he needs to feel their support underneath him.

The cordoned-off family section is a funny gaggle of people; the kids, Winnie, Nick (who in an act of sainthood came at Harry’s last-minute request) and Nick’s boyfriend Gerard, a race car driver who inexplicably ends up chatting with Evan all night.

Halfway through the show, Mia makes good on her promise to throw water bottles at them; she flings one right at Harry with the same practiced arc she would throw a soccer ball. Harry, though, is used to fielding thrown objects, and he grabs it out of the air, uncaps it and whips the water itself at her.

“Ohhhh!” she crows when it hits her. Amir, who was standing next to her and caught a few drops, jumps away like an affronted cat. “Asshole!”

Harry grins at her, part out of amusement,  but also to remind her that there shouldn’t be any hard feelings between them. To his relief, Mia smiles back, wiping water off her face.

 

*

 

Backstage, it’s like a party. The kids come up to join the band after, and the room’s already full of people milling around and popping champagne, lounging on big black couches, laughing. Oli and Calvin are here now, huddled around Louis in a corner while he gestures wildly. He motions to his cheek at one point, and Amir wonders if he’s telling the story of his fight with Harry. Niall comes up to them and scoops up Jamie, then whisks him and Winnie away to go talk to some RCA label guy in the corner who Amir very vaguely recognizes. A couple members of 5SOS are wandering around, too, with women in tow.

Their aunt Lottie corrals them and gives them all a hug — “Sorry I missed you lot, I was in the audience, you know it’s way more fun there” — then heads off to refill her drink. Mia leads them to a circle of couches in the middle of the room where Harry, Zayn and Liam have taken up residence.

Harry’s being bugged by Nick, and as they sit down it becomes obvious Nick’s trying to get him to come out for a drink.

“I’m just exhausted,” Harry pleads. “Completely.”

Nick plants his hands on his hips. “This is rubbish, Styles. You drag me all the way out here and you just dismiss me as soon as the concert's over?”

Harry nods. “Exactly.”

“Dick.”

“So did you enjoy the show, at least?”

“Yeah, it was good,” Nick says. “Gerard had an excellent time.”

“I love you guys,” Gerard says in a thick French accent. “So does my muzzer.”

“Please tell your mother we love her too,” Harry says.

“Watch it, he’ll try something,” Nick says to Gerard, which gets a grin from Harry and a little side-eye from Zayn. “Liam, how are you?”

“Me?” Liam says, glancing up at him. “I’m alright, why?”

“Nothing, I just haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Yeah you have! I’ve just seen you at our Christmas party.”

“No, you haven’t, I didn’t come to last year’s,” Nick says, laughing.

Liam’s brow knits, then he has a moment of realization and pats Nick on the arm.  “Ooh, sorry, you know what I’ve done? I’ve gone and confused you with Jack Whitehall. Jesus.”

“Wow, thanks,” Nick says drily.

“That’s not an insult,” Harry says.

“More the fact that fine but simple over here has forgotten who I am.”

Liam snorts. “Think I’m actually just getting old, but whatever you say, Jack.”

Harry laughs.

“Sunday, why do you associate with these barbarians?” Nick jokes, clearly trying to include her — she’s sort of quietly off in the corner as usual.

Sunday laughs. “I’m a lifelong hostage,” she says.

“Who’s an uncouth barbarian, Nick?” Harry says. “You’re the one joking about me fucking people’s mother’s.”

“But I’m a radio man, I’m meant to be controversial.”

“Since when is that a requirement?”

Nick takes a pull off a vape, then hands it to Gerard. “Since Howard Stern.”

“Ohh, shit, is that where I recognize your voice from?” Evan says to Nick. “My Uber driver this morning was listening to you, I think.”

Nick turns to him and lifts an eyebrow. “You American?”

“Yeah,” Evan says, like he doesn’t even realize this is something to be ashamed of.

“Nick, this is my boyfriend Evan,” Amir says.

“Oh, _boyfriend?”_ Nick looks Evan up and down and gives a nod of approval. “Not bad, little Tomlinson.”

“Please don’t say these things about teenagers,” Harry says.

“I’ll be twenty in August,” Evan offers.

“He’ll be twenty in August, Styles,” Nick says to Harry, who rolls his eyes with a chuckle.

“Wait,” Zayn says, glancing up as if he’s just come back online. “You two are back together?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Amir says, incredulous. “Are you just not paying attention to me at all lately?”

Zayn shoots him a look that indicates he’s going to catch hell if he backtalks his father again in front of a group of people that includes Liam. “No,” he says, “I’ve just been distracted.”

“Right.”

Zayn lifts up his sleeve and flexes his bicep, flashing his _Amir_ tattoo at him. “So what happened to your trombonist, then?”

“He’s been dismissed,” Amir says.

Mia snorts.

“ _Dismissed,”_ Nick repeats, like this is the best thing he’s heard all year. “Amir, come clubbing with us.”

Zayn looks perturbed by the return of Boyfriend Evan — he had made several comments to Amir, last summer, about he should really be dating someone with more ambition, reminding him that he was going off to the best performing arts school in the world. But of course Evan is sitting across from him at the moment, so he doesn’t say anything about that. “Over my dead body,” he tells Nick.

“Why don’t you two just stay here and drink with us?” Harry suggests. “I can’t go out anyway, the paps have gone psychotic after yesterday.”

“Ah, fine,” Nick says. “We’re gonna go say hello to Louis, then, ‘cos I think he’ll give us a lot more good details on your fistfight than you did.”

“It wasn’t a _fistfight_ ,” Harry says, but Nick’s already off. Gerard doesn’t follow him, though — he wanders away to go talk to some guy Amir doesn’t recognize.

Zayn yawns and leans back against the couch, blinking up at the fluorescent lights overhead. “I might head back to the hotel soon,” he says, nudging Harry.

“Stay a bit longer,” Harry says, reaching down to squeeze his thigh and looking at him hopefully.

Zayn sighs.

“I might be right behind him, honestly,” Liam murmurs. “Can barely keep my eyes open.”

“Gotta rally,” Harry says, rubbing his eyes.

“Well, the champagne's certainly not helping,” Liam says.

Zayn’s watch rings, then; he digs his phone out of his pocket and brings it to his ear. “Hullo?” He does a sort of sideways glance at Harry, then says, “Yeah, give me a second,” and walks off toward the bowels of the backstage area.

They all exchange looks as if to confirm with each other that this was odd.

“Who’d be calling right now?” Liam says.

Harry shrugs. “Mum? Sisters? Friends?”

“I think I know who it was,” Mia says. She’s leaning back in her seat with an authoritative posture, like she’s the king of backstage. “Taylor.”

Harry shakes his head. “They haven’t talked in ages,” he says.

“Wait, what, _Swift_?” Evan says, and Amir nods.

“It’s her,” Mia says. “I’ll bet you guys a hundred bucks, I could just tell.”

Harry eyes her with a noncommittal expression, then drops his gaze to his hands, twisting one of his rings around his finger.

“A hundred, huh?” Liam says with a smile. He laces his hands behind his head. “I’ll take that action.”

“I mean, the odds are pretty good it’s _not_ her,” Amir says. “Just statistically. So if you’re just over here giving money away, I’ll bet you, yeah.”

“I’ll bet with Amir,” Sunday says. “Since he’s a math genius.”

Amir nudges Evan on his left. Evan looks guilelessly back at him, then says,  “Oh, yeah, sure, me too.”

Evan has never really grasped how important bets and competitions are in Amir’s family. His own family seems to think anything more passionate than a friendly game of croquet is untoward.

Mia shakes her head, her ponytail swinging. “Dummies,” she says. “Harry?”

“No thank you,” Harry says dryly. “You can keep your illegal gambling.”

“Please, you just know I’m right, is why.”

“Honestly, I’ve got no idea.”

“Sorry, Harry?” Liam says. “I know for a fact you played underground poker for years, so what’s this about illegal gambling?”

Harry winks at him. “Can’t prove it, can you? Can you? No.”

Niall rejoins them, then, yawning and running his hand through his sandy hair. “What’s the story?” he says to no one in particular.

“The usual,” Liam says. “What were you talking to Kevin about?”

“Oh, me and Win want to try to do another album together next year, so we were just chattin’ about that.” Niall comes over and flops down in the corner of the couch, between Liam and Sunday.

“What’s Winnie’s music like?” Amir says.

“What d’you mean?” Niall says.

“Like what’s she play, and stuff? What instruments?”

He knows he’s probably heard this before, but he’s never paid attention. Plus Winnie’s accent is so thick he can barely understand her most times.

“Oh,” Niall says, sounding pleased to be asked. “Fiddle, mostly. Piano and guitar a bit. Typical folk stuff.”

“Bagpipes?”

“Ah, nah, no bagpipes.”

“I’m not being an asshole,” Amir adds. “I think bagpipes are cool.”

Harry laughs softly at this.

“They make an interesting sound,” Niall agrees. He sags back against the couch, rubbing his hand over his face. “Ahhh, what a day, lads.”

Liam nods hard, then yawns himself.

Zayn comes back over, stepping nimbly through the crowd with his eyes downcast, like he doesn’t want anyone to talk to him. He sits back down, closer to Harry this time, and Harry stretches an arm over the back of the couch behind him.

“So how’s Taylor?” Mia says.

Amir glances between them in anticipation.

Zayn knits his brow at her. “How’d you know that was her?”

“Ha!” Mia exclaims. Everyone who bet her groans, then starts opening Venmo on their watches and phones.

“I mean, she’s fine,” Zayn adds, looking further confused. “She was just checking in...”

“That’ll be four hundred dollars, thanks,” Mia says to no one in particular.

“This is bullshit,” Amir says. “You could see his caller ID, couldn’t you?”

“From where I’m sitting? Get eyes.”

“I _have_ eyes, that’s how I know you’re full of shit.”

“You’re a terrible loser,” Mia tells him. “It’s ‘cos you never played sports, you never learned how to lose.”

Amir elbows her, and she retaliates with a gentle smack upside his head; Evan intervenes by sticking his arm in between them before this gets truly violent.

“I miss something?” Zayn says to Harry. Niall looks equally baffled.

“Silly bet,” Harry explains.

“Aw, you ran a bet without me?” Niall says to Mia.

“So-orry, you were off in the corner —“

She’s interrupted by the sound of Nick and Louis cackling hysterically from across the room. They all turn to look, and Nick shouts to them: “Harry, you’re a monster!”

Harry‘s brow knits. “ _What_?”

“Terrible, terrible man!”

Louis whispers something else to Nick, and they dissolve into further peals of laughter.

Harry, clearly unamused, gives them a dirty look and turns back around. “I’m too tired for whatever that is.”

“With best mates like these,” Liam says, grinning.

Harry laughs. “You’re my real best mate, Liam,” he jokes sweetly.

“Aww,” Liam says. “I’m honored.”

Zayn looks affronted. “The fuck am I, then?”

“My darling husband,” Harry says, a little loudly, like Zayn’s hard of hearing.

Amir, meanwhile, is drawn to the excitement off in the corner; he takes Evan by the hand and pulls him to his feet, dragging him along.

Louis greets him fondly when he walks up, tossing an arm around him. “There’s my sonny boy,” he says. He sounds a little drunk already; the beer in his hand is nearly empty.

“Hi,” Amir says.

“Tommo’s one legitimate offspring,” Calvin says, grinning, and gets socked in the arm for it.

“Are the kids with you much longer?” Nick asks, draining the rest of his champagne flute.

“Uh, I think this is the last date, yeah?” Louis says. “‘Cos we don’t play Ireland for a few more days.”

Amir nods. He really is sort of sad it’s ending.

“Now, who’s this?” Oli says, lifting his chin in the direction of Evan.

All four of them turn their heads to scope Evan out, the combined force of which is almost menacing.

“Amir’s boyfriend,” Louis says. “And friend of, what, thirteen years or something?”

“Yeah,” Evan says. “Yeah. A long time.”

Louis tips his head at them. “They’re high-school sweethearts, them.”

Everyone gives this an _aww_ that’s half sincere, half self-referentially treacly. Amir could correct his dad that this is technically wrong, because he graduated early, but he’ll let him have it. Louis is so weirdly encouraging of him being in young love, like it’s the most romantic thing in the world.

“That’s like us,” Calvin says to Louis, who looks him up and down and shudders. “No, not the _sweetheart_ part, you fucking dolt, the friendship bit…”

“And what do you do, Evan?” Oli says, sipping his beer.

“Uh,” Evan says. “Actually nothing, right now.”

“Oh, on the dole, then?” Oli says. “No, kidding, I can tell you’re rich from your haircut.”

Evan grins. “Guilty.”

“Not in school or anything?” Calvin says.

“Not in school.”

Louis leans over tipsily and says, “He’s on probation, actually,” as if this is a badge of honor and not a bad thing.

“Ohh!” Oli says. “Cheers.”

“What for?” Calvin says, grinning.

Evan laughs. “Uhh, possession.”

“Of?” Nick prods.

“Coke.”

They all cheer, except Louis, who rolls his eyes at the cheering. Amir, feeling left out, says, “We got arrested together.”

“Oh!” Calvin exclaims. “Was this all part of the same incident, the Ferrari caper? We were so proud when Tommo told us Amir’d been nicked for the first time.”

“And the last,” Louis says, with a stern face.

“No, he’s a jazz musician,” Nick says. “They’re supposed to be a bit bad, aren’t they?”

“Chet Baker was always in and out of jail,” Amir says.

“Yeah, and I’m sure that did wonders for his career,” Louis says.

“Oh, come on, you can’t stop him getting into a little trouble,” Nick says. “Not after all you and Zayn used to get up to. Don’t play innocent now.”

Amir grins at this. Louis rolls his eyes, then says to his son, “Feel free to smoke weed and kick a few bins over, but I’ll keep you out of jail if it’s the last thing I do.”

“You see any jail time, Evan?” Calvin says.

“Oh, nah,” Evan says. “I spent the night, that was it.”

“Got a mugshot?” Nick asks.

Evan nods, looking a little embarrassed. “It’s the first thing you get when you Google me,” he admits.

Amir thinks he looks kind of hot in his mugshot. His light hair is smoothed back in it like James Dean, and he has a haughtily defiant look. But his cheeks were abraded red and raw from the airbag, and his eyes were sorrowful, almost pitiful.

“What do you like to do?” Nick says. He’s clearly in interview mode, now. “Other than cocaine?”

Evan laughs. “I swear I was just holding it. I’m not a cocaine guy.”

“Well, I like you a bit less now,” Nick says. “But to my original question?”

“Um. I like to skateboard? Surf? I help shoot stuff for my friends’ YouTube sometimes... I just like being outside, like on the beach, or in the woods...” Evan shrugs.

“What a California boy,” Nick says. “You surf? Amir, I can’t imagine you surfing.”

“He’s tried to teach me a couple times,” Amir says.

Evan nods. “He doesn’t like getting his hair wet.”

Amir elbows him.

“Well, you don’t!”

“Amir isn’t my most athletic child,” Louis says tipsily.

Amir makes a face of offense at this.

“You like football at all, Evan?” Oli asks, cracking the top on another Stella.

Evan looks confused. “Like…?” he mimes throwing a football American-style, and is met with a chorus of boos.

“Go home!” Calvin exclaims. “Get out of our country!”

“Alright, I get it,” Evan says, laughing. “Yeah, sort of. Mostly through Mia? She got me into the women’s national team, I follow them a little… and I’ve been to a few of her games with these two.” He indicates Amir and Louis, who smiles proudly. “I’m more of a baseball guy, though.”

“Well, you’ve lost us there,” Oli says.

“You guys don’t follow baseball at all?”

Calvin laughs. “Barely know what it is.”

“Dad?” Amir says. “Are you gonna flip shit if I get myself a glass of champagne?”

Louis eyes him. “How much have you had tonight?”

Amir hates how everyone’s always monitoring his alcohol intake. They do the same thing to Mia, but not as much — maybe because she never seems as eager about it as he does, but he wants to think that’s just him being a middle child. He always had to be more eager than her to get what he wants. He holds up a finger and says, “I had _one_ beer.”

“Alright, go ahead.”

“Speaking of football,” Oli says, and then launches into some involved diatribe about Liverpool that Amir is immediately bored by. He drags Evan along again, through the crowd of semi-familiar-to-familiar-faces, and over to the rider table where all of the bands’ requested libations are present, including a basket of Harry & David pears for some reason.

Amir pours himself a glass of Dom and then leans his hip against the table as Evan pours his own.

“They’re a lot, these British guys,” Evan mutters.

“It’s just piss-taking,” Amir says. “They always do that. They liked you, trust me.”

Evan clinks his glass against Amir’s. “Cheers,” he says, in a terrible British accent. _Cheeahs._

Amir smiles. “Cheers.”

 

*

 

“But you don’t know how it feels,” Liam is saying to Lottie when Amir and Evan head back over to them. “I’m not saying it’s as bad! I’m just saying you have no idea how bad our thing hurts.”

“Come on, Liam,” she exclaims. “You’re being silly.”

“Seriously,” Winnie says. “There’s absolutely no contest.”

“What are we talking about?” Amir says to Mia, leaning over the back of the couch.

“Childbirth versus getting hit in the balls,” Mia explains.

“Why don’t you guys ask someone who’s felt both?” Sunday says. “There’s like five of them here.”

“That’s what I keep saying!” Niall says.

“Oi,” Zayn calls over his shoulder. “Harry...”

“No, don’t ask Harry, he’s got that weird high pain tolerance,” Liam says. “Louis!”

It takes a minute, but they both disengage from their respective cliques and wander over. “What do you lot want?” Louis says, tipsy and swaying a bit on his feet.

“Your husband thinks that getting hit in the balls is anywhere as painful as childbirth,” Lottie says.

Louis shoots Liam a look. “Payno…”

“No, I didn’t say that!” Liam hurries to say. “I said, for someone like me, who can’t experience, y’know, _that_ , getting hit in the balls is probably one of the worst pains I can have in like, what, the regular course of my life, so if you think of it in terms of like, a _comparison_ , for me it’s nearly as bad, was all I was saying.”

“Absolutely no contest,” Louis says. “Childbirth, end of. Getting hit in the nads is a walk in the park, compared.”

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t think having a baby was _that_ painful,” he says.

“Well, alright, you fuckin’ alien,” Louis scoffs. “But I’m gonna pull rank on you here, as I’ve done it more often.”

Harry looks at him the way one would look at a mildly interesting subway ad. “I don’t think you have, though.”

Louis stares back at him. “I’ve had four babies, mate!”

“Right, but only once without drugs,” Harry says. “I did once without drugs, as well. So we’re even.”

“It still hurts with drugs, you absolute wombat!”

Harry shrugs again and says serenely, “Actually, the worst pain I’ve ever had was when Zayn and I went backpacking in Nepal and I got stung by a tarantula hawk wasp.”

Zayn nods slowly. “‘E screamed, like,” he says. “Never heard him scream before.”

Niall laughs. “So where exactly did we land on this?”

“That Lottie and I are right,” Louis says.

Lottie tips her head. “Thank you.”

“Hey, I’m on your team as well,” Winnie says.

“So sorry, Win. Winnie, Lottie and I are right.”

“Well, hang on though, it’s a whole new ballgame if we consider insect stings,” Liam says.

“Dunno about that,” Louis says. “‘Cos I’ve never had a twenty-hour-long insect sting.”

“That’s a fair point,” Harry says. “Time dilates, though. Everything is relative.”

“Now, how about getting hit by a train or something?” Niall says.

“Or gettin’ a hand chopped off,” Winnie suggests.

Harry seems to consider this. “I think that’s a bit outside our personal experience,” he says.

Zayn snorts. “Ah, so… I’m gonna head back to the hotel now.”

Everyone makes noises of protest at him.

“Yeah, I know,” Zayn says, getting up. “Sorry. But I can go ahead and bring the kids back.”

“Noo,” Amir and Mia chorus, but Sunday looks sort of relieved.

“No, he’s right,” Louis says. “You should all get some rest. You’re traveling again tomorrow, and you’re totally sleep-deprived.”

“We feel fine,” Amir says.

“You feel fine _now,_ ‘cos you’re nineteen. It’ll hit you eventually.”

Zayn gets to his feet, patting his butt like he’s checking for his phone and wallet. “I can take Jamie back, too,” he offers to Niall.

“Nah, thanks, we’ll be along in a bit,” Niall says. “Actually, where is Jamie?”

Louis finishes draining a bottle of water and points. “Think I saw him over that way, with Nick and Calvin.”

“Oh, no no no no no,” Niall exclaims, getting to his feet and bolting in that direction as Louis and Winnie cackle.

“Wait, I have a birth horror story,” Liam says, putting his hands up. He sounds like he’s a little tipsy as well.

“Is it the story about when I was in labor with the twins and you threw up in my ice chips?” Louis says.

Liam giggles. “No! It’s about this bloke who works at Sony, who didn’t know he was pregnant —“

“Oh, shit, I heard about this too,” Zayn says.

“I don’t believe that ever happens,” Louis says. “I’m sorry, I just don’t. It doesn’t any make sense.”

“No, this happened,” Zayn says. “‘Eard it from reliable sources.”

Harry mouths _reliable sources_ to himself, looking amused.

“What happened?” Sunday says, looking grossed out. Lottie leans in in anticipation.

“So,” Liam says, “this guy never knew he was pregnant, thought he’d just put on a few, right? But then he’s having these bad pains at work one day, so he goes in the toilet —“

“Noooo!” Harry exclaims.

“— yeah, goes in the toilet, _the public office toilet,_ and has a baby. He’d been in labor the whole day without realizing. And he’s just there like, what the fuck? I mean what do you even do, the poor guy.”

“Call 999, I imagine,” Louis says wryly.

Zayn glances over at him, then, and they exchange a smile.

Liam misses this, seemingly still mind-boggled. “At work! Incredible.”

“So what’s the point of this, Payno,” Louis says. “That havin’ a baby can’t possibly hurt that bad, if somebody could miss it happening?”

“No, that angle honestly hadn’t occurred to me,” Liam says innocently. “It just reminded me I’d heard that story last week.”

Louis shakes his head. “I hardly believe that could happen, anyway. Every time I was pregnant I knew ‘round week eight.”

“Really?” Winnie says. “That’s impressive, ‘specially for a bloke.”

“He always got sick loads,” Lottie explains. “I wasn’t half as sick with Nathan as he was with any of his kids.”

“Did you really, Dad?” Mia says.

“Yeah,” Louis says grimly, “you all put your old man through the wringer. Was barfing all over the place, every time.”

Amir makes a face.

“Ah, that’s so unlucky,” Winnie says.

Louis shrugs. “That’s me.”

“Still, even if you aren’t that way, how d’you not notice for nearly a year?” Lottie says.

“Ask the Sony man,” Liam says in a spooky voice, like he’s just told a campfire story.

Louis laughs. “Quit making fun of that poor bastard, it’s bad karma.”

“Alright, c’mon, kids,” Zayn says, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand and beckoning them with the other. “Bedtime.”

“Night, babe,” Harry calls to him. “I’ll be heading back soon, myself.”

Amir gets to his feet, but he and Mia linger, still not wanting to leave the adults’ conversation quite yet.

“We’ll text you when we find out what tomorrow’s big Sun headline is,” Louis says. “Probably that we’re all sacrificing each other to Satan on stage at SSE Belfast.”

“Oh, have we scrapped the sacrifice bit, then?” Harry jokes.

“You know what’s interesting,” Liam says, “is Niall hardly even gets name checked in these stories. These last twenty-five years, barely one hit piece.”

“That’s ‘cos he’s a perfect angel,” Louis says.

Winnie chuckles. “No, he isn’t.”

“Exactly!” Liam says. “He’s just so good at secrecy. Louis thinks he’s such a saint.”

“No, alright, but look — his drama’s always been very _normal_ , is the thing,” Louis says. “He’s never really created those crazy headlines. You need something juicy to stay in the British tabs, ‘cos it’s all this shit like, ‘I’ve fucked a ghost’ or ‘I’ve married me dad.’”

“Actually,” Winnie says, grinning, “there’s one really dirty story he told me that I’m shocked’s never made it out. I dannae if you lot have heard it. I don’t think he’d mind if you did, though.”

Harry leans forward, his face rapt. All four kids go very still, like everyone will forget they’re there if they don’t move.

But Louis says, “Kids,” in his stern voice. “I think that’s your cue.”

“Please, Dad,” Mia says. “We’re all adults here, right?”

“You’ll be an adult when you unload the dishwasher without me asking,” Louis tells her.

“ _Wow_ , I save everybody from a wildfire just to get talked to like this?”

“I actually just got you a big gift for that,” Louis says patiently, “but keep testing me and I’ll send it back.”

“Alright, never mind,” Mia quickly backtracks.

Winnie tips her head, motioning for them to go. “Out, wee chancers. It’s a bit X-rated, this.”

“Hey, no,” Amir exclaims. “Now I really wanna hear.”

“Get your own band, love, then you can hear X-rated band gossip,” Louis says.

“But I’m _in_ a band, they’re just old and boring.” Actually, now that he thinks about it, his jazz bandmates are probably about the same age as One Direction are, it’s just that the latter still acts like teenagers a lot of the time.

“Well, that’s what you get for being a professional,” Louis jokes. 

Zayn wraps his arms around his children and starts guiding them away, to where they’d hung up their jackets earlier. Sunday and Evan fall in step behind. Everyone calls out goodnights, then they go quiet — Amir shoots a glance over his shoulder and sees Winnie has begun whispering to a spellbound Harry, Louis, Liam and Lottie.

“Don’t you want to hear, Dad?” Mia says.

“Nice try,” Zayn says. “First, I don’t care. Second, Harry’ll just tell me later.”

“Lame,” Mia declares.

“Trust me, you’re not missing anythin’. It’ll be something painfully stupid, and then they’ll get off on a tangent about some shit that happened fifteen years ago, and then your dad and Niall’ll sing drinking songs ‘til they pass out.”

“You say it like that’s not fun,” Mia says.

Security leads them outside to an idling town car, its LED headlights blaring through the dark night and making streaks on the wet parking lot pavement. It must have rained after the show.

“So how was that?” Amir says to Evan as they climb in the back. Zayn gets up front with the driver and shuts the partition, probably to give them privacy but more likely so he can have some peace and quiet. “Still a lot?” he teases.

“Nah, that was more my speed,” Evan says. “Reminded me of Christmas with my dad’s family, when my Grandma Mamie’s drunk and she starts telling us about how she fucked all the Baldwins in the eighties…”

Sunday was looking out the window, and at this she whips around in her seat, looking shocked. “Grandma Mamie?” she says. “Wait, isn’t your last name Stewart?”

“Yeah.”

“So Mamie Stewart? The Carnegie Hill Stewarts?”

Evan squints at her. “Yeah…?”

“Oh my God,” Sunday says, laughing. “My great-uncle is Joe Marino.”

Evan’s eyes go wide. “ _What_? No way. You’re a Marino?”

“Yeah, my mom is!”

“Shit, I never put it together that she was one of _those_ Marinos —“

“— and I didn’t know your family was from New York!”

“That’s so tight. This is crazy.”

Mia and Amir look at each other, nonplussed. The car starts rolling.

“How did we never talk about this before?” Evan says in that golden retriever way of his, like he’s forgetting how unusual it is for him and Sunday to actually say anything to each other besides ‘hi’. “This is fucking wild.”

“Well, I don’t, like, talk about my mom’s family,” Sunday says. “I haven’t seen them in years.”

“But I didn’t even know you were old money like that,” Evan says.

Sunday shrugs.

“Plus, I always thought that family had no heirs.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Sunday says, her expression souring. “They pretend I don’t exist?”

“Is it just you?”

“Just me,” Sunday says. “I’m my mom’s only kid, and my uncle still doesn’t have any.”

“God,” Evan says, “my mom’s gonna be so pissed when I tell her about this, she’s gonna be like, what are you doing dating her stepbrother and not her?”

Sunday has a good laugh at this.

“Hey,” Amir complains. “Your mom loves me.”

“Guys, hold up,” Mia says. “Essplain, please?”

Evan and Sunday finally look over at them. “My great-aunt and her great-uncle had a kid together,” Evan explains. “They never got married or anything, it was this big like, New York society scandal. It’s my cousin Noelle, I’ve never met her, she lives in Berlin or something… Hey, did you guys have any idea Sunday’s gonna be worth like, a couple billion someday?”

“ _What_?” Mia exclaims, and Sunday looks abashed.

“Not really,” she says. “I mean, there’s other people that are gonna inherit a lot… and not ‘til after my mom’s gone, anyway, if they don’t cut me out completely.”

“Sunday!” Amir says, completely bowled over. “What the fuck!”

“Look, I don’t want it! I just want to have horses! What do I need that much money for? I’ll just give it all away, probably.”

“Uh, buy me some stuff first, please,” Amir says. “Where did your family get billions from?”

“They used to run the ports in New York,” Evan says. “Some guy just showed up from Italy with a ton of money like two hundred years ago.”

“Pasquale Marino,” Sunday supplies. “He was from some super rich family, he married a duchess.” She recites this in a bored way, like it’s facts from history class.

“You’re related to a _duchess_?” Amir demands of Sunday.

Mia grabs Amir by the arm. “Oh my God. Her horse is _named_ Duchess.”

Sunday nods, looking amused. “Yeah.”

“I feel like I’m on the fucking X-Files,” Amir says.

“Are you secretly royalty?” Mia says. “If you are, I swear...”

“No, I’m not. We lost our title, the king took it away.”

“Why?”

“We fought against England in World War Two or something.”

“Uh,” Amir says, laughing. “World War _One_ , probably…”

“That’s so cool, though,” Mia says. “Can you get it back?”

“God, my dad used to ask my mom the same thing,” Sunday says. “I think you’d literally have to take it up with the king.”

“I totally will. Harry got knighted, we have an in with them now.”

“So,” Evan says, “question... How do you guys not know, like, any of this stuff about her?”

“She’s so secretive!” Mia exclaims.

“How did _you_ not know this?” Amir says to Evan. “You’ve been hanging out with me forever!”

“It’s not that crazy,” Evan says, shrugging. “I mean, I never even see my New York family except around the holidays in the Hamptons.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, my dad moved the headquarters when he took the company over, so he could hire Silicon Valley people… I’ve never lived anywhere else.”

“I don’t associate with my mom’s family,” Sunday says. (Mia and Amir exchange a quick side glance of silent agreement that this is a bizarre way to talk about your family). “I haven’t been to New York in years.”

“Not even to visit me,” Amir says, pouting, and Sunday laughs. “But wait, Evan, you went to Groton for a year.”

Evan shrugs. “I never saw my family when I was there.”

“Seriously?” Amir says. “Not one time?”

“Nope.”

“No one drove up to visit?”

“No.” He looks confused. “Why would they? It’s boarding school.”

“That’s shitty of them,” Amir says.

Evan looks kind of embarrassed and defensive. “It’s just how it is.”

“But you were only like, fourteen. You hated it so much you fucked up and got kicked out just so you could come home.”

Evan shrugs. “That was my problem, not theirs.”

“Jesus Christ,” Amir says. “It’s exactly like _Crazy Rich Asians_. Crazy Rich White People.”

“Yeah, I don’t understand you guys,” Mia says.

“You’re rich,” Sunday points out.

“No, old-school rich people. Both our dads were born, like, working-class.”

“Being old money doesn’t matter like it used to,” Evan says.

“It does if you’re English,” Mia says. “They’re crazy about class over here.”

“It’s true,” Amir agrees. “England’s very stupid.”

“And Sunday, your mom was born in a diamond palace, apparently.”

“But my dad was born normal, _here_ , and he’s the one I actually like,” Sunday says. “So leave me alone, make fun of Evan.”

“That’s not fair,” Evan protests. “You guys are famous, that’s way weirder. Your family’s super weird.” They all protest, and he quickly adds, “Weird in a good way, but weird.”

“We are pretty weird,” Mia admits.

“I still wanna know what Niall did,” Amir says. “Winnie made it sound really fucked up.”

“I think I’m fine not knowing,” Sunday says.

“I don’t even want to know, I just want to know enough to be able to make Niall _think_ I know,” Mia says. “And then say something to him, and see how awkward he gets.”

“I like that idea,” Amir agrees.

Sunday shakes her head in prim disappointment. “You guys are terrible,” she says, but she’s smiling too.

“Please,” Mia says.

“Bart and Lisa.”

“Rude!”

Evan laughs. “Oh shit, they are.”

“I’m not _Bart_ ,” Amir exclaims.

“Obviously I’m Bart and you’re Lisa,” Mia tells him.

“Yeah, that’s what I was going for,” Sunday says.

Amir considers this. “Fine, I can be Lisa.”

“Who does that make Sunday?” Mia says.

“The dog,” Amir says, grinning. Sunday looks incredibly offended. “Well, only ‘cos there’s no one else for you to be!”

“So I’m the _dog?_ ”

“What, who do you wanna be, the grandpa?”

“Maggie,” Evan suggests.

“Twins are Maggie,” Amir and Mia say in perfect unison.

“Who’s the guy who’s supposed to be a Kennedy?” Mia says. “That’s you, you’re such a Kennedy. You ride horses, you’re even friends with a Kennedy.”

“My mom’s family would be really offended about you comparing them to Irish people,” Sunday says, laughing.

“We’re Muslim, we earned the right to lump all the Catholics in together,” Mia says.

“Since when?” Evan says.

“Since the Crusades,” Amir says.

“So literally a thousand years ago?”

Amir bumps knees with him. “Impressed you remember when the Crusades happened.”

Evan shrugs. “You’re the one who forced me to actually study for AP World.”

“And you got a three, didn’t you?”

“I did. That was a miracle.”

Amir turns cockily to Sunday. “See _?”_

“I can't believe you’re still butthurt that I didn’t let you tutor me _three_ years ago,” Sunday says.

“Two years,” Amir says. “Wow, you didn’t let me and now look, you can’t even count.”

Sunday picks up one of the scones Evan had scooped off the rider table, and tosses it at his head. Amir catches it and throws it back at her.

“Whoa, hey,” Evan says, dropping his hands over the remaining ones. “Those are my plane scones!”

This results in a momentary truce between the other three, so they can mock Evan for having ‘plane scones.’

 

HEATHROW, JUNE 24, 2036

They leave Evan at the airport the following afternoon, parting ways at security. He and Amir have a chaste, short kiss (understandable considering Amir’s father, stepfather, sisters and bodyguards are twenty feet away) and then they hug for a long moment, Amir burying his face in Evan’s shoulder. Evan holds him tight, swaying them both on their feet and whispering in his ear.

Louis feels for them, watching this. He acutely remembers the joys and tragedies of being that age, how your life doesn’t feel quite your own, how all your romances feel starcrossed by virtue of the constantly shifting kaleidoscope of your life. He always felt like he was being torn from Eleanor moments after he was returned to her. And then he was ripped away from Liam prematurely, too, under circumstances someone of any age would find heartbreaking.

Amir murmurs something to Evan that makes him laugh and nod. He reaches in his pocket to dig something out — it looks like a tiny figurine of Big Ben — and hands it to Amir, who smiles morosely at it.

“He’s turned out alright, Evan has,” Liam says.

Louis nods.

(He and Zayn had an argument over this early that morning, when Zayn came by his room and discreetly woke him to see if he’d like to join him for a joint. He agreed and followed him out to the balcony, where they had a short little row about whether or not Evan was “good enough” for Amir — a familiar topic, by now.

“You know, Harry was seventeen when he fell in love with you,” Louis pointed out. “And you two broke up ‘cos he was worried about his future.”

“That’s different,” Zayn snapped. “I had a future, too. Besides, it’s probably a good thing we ‘ad that time apart and found each other again as adults.”

“I don’t believe that,” Louis said. “I think if you love each other enough, you can grow together. A little time apart is good, but fifteen years? Just seems like a waste.”

“You know _why_ Evan loves our kid so much? ‘Cos he knows he’s never gonna do better than Amir! He’s never gonna find someone that talented or with that much potential, and he wants to latch on before our son even gets the chance to consider his options!”

“Zayn, that’s just cruel! You don’t have to write the kid off entirely, he’s nineteen! He needs time to grow and figure himself out!”

“Which is exactly why I don’t want Amir getting so attached to him! He’s already figured himself out!”

“Exactly, and you’re not considering what he wants at all! He’s _been_ attached to him!”

“He’s a hormonal teenager, he doesn’t know what the fuck he wants!”

“They were together for a year before they broke up!”

“So fucking what?”

Unable to reach a detente, they just stood there in annoyed silence, passing the joint back and forth.

Finally Louis said, as an olive branch: “D’you remember when Mims was born? How they had all those moronic stories out… that we were rowing in the delivery room, that we were just acting like complete chavs… obviously fake, ‘cos we never even made it to the delivery room.”

“Yeah,” Zayn said quietly. “Besides, we were actually really happy that day. I remember us bein’ so happy.”

Louis smiles at him. “We were, yeah.”

“What made you think of that?”

“Oh, I dunno. I think that was the last time I remember actually being in London at a time when the rags here were really coming after us… plus what we talked about last night, the having a baby in the toilet shit.”

Zayn laughed. “Right.”

“Y’know, it was fuckin’ ridiculous, the way I had her, but, ah… It was nice, too. You were great.”

“Oh, Louis, Christ… ‘course. I barely did anythin’.”

“You did, though — you delivered her!”

Zayn flapped a self-deprecating hand at him. “I’d _left_ you,” he said. “We were about to have a baby, and I ran away and went on a bender… second time I left you when you were pregnant, hey?”

“Forget it,” Louis said firmly. “Forget that bit, seriously. We were kids, we both did stupid, irresponsible shit. But it was one of the happiest days of my life, in the end.”

Zayn nodded without making eye contact, and took a deep drag. “Mine too,” was all he said.)

Evan kisses Amir on the forehead one more time, then shrugs his messenger bag back up onto his shoulder, waves to the gathered crowd with his boarding pass in hand, and heads off to TSA.

Amir comes back over to them looking terribly sad, but he quickly covers this up with an expression of nonchalance and a pair of Ray-Bans that he slips on. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

 

*

 

They’re mostly quiet on the drive to Phoebe’s. Sunday falls asleep immediately — Liam and Louis chat with each other a little up front, but _sotto voce_ so they don’t wake her, and mostly about boring band stuff.

Amir listens to music with his headphones and stares out the window. Mia punches him every time she sees a Tesla, because that’s always been their game with each other, but after two punches he gets fed up and snaps, “Leave me alone.”

“Quit being boring, sadboy,” Mia tells him.

“Shut up...”

He does look genuinely sad, so she leaves him alone and returns to texting her group chat with the two teammates she’s closest to, Ariana and Kat. They’re nearly her only friends who haven’t bothered her yet about the dad drama. Usually people learn over time to leave her alone about that stuff, but the excitement of Louis and Harry’s fight has apparently overcome most of her friends’ ability to restrain themselves.

They keep telling her, “I’m just curious and I don’t want to blindly believe the stuff the tabloids say,” but like, just mind your own business, maybe. How hard is that? For years and years Mia’s wanted to ask, “How creepy would it be for you if I got nosy about _your_ parents?” But she knows they wouldn’t understand that it’s the same thing. It’s like they think her dads and the guys her dads are in public are different people.

 **Kit-Kat**  
_btw_ _mia, is your house okay??_

_idk. no one’s been able to get up there yet. hope so_

**Ariana**  
_we lost our malibu condo :(_ _but it didn’t have any of our stuff in it so_

Mia’s a little cranky, and pointedly ignores this. Congrats on your intact belongings.

 **Ariana**  
_doesn’t your family have a house in malibu?_

_yeah but my stepdad said it’s okay. it’s on the beach, so they could just knock the fire down behind it_

**Ariana**  
_luckyyyyyy_

 **Kit-Kat**  
_did you guys hear that Tamra’s dog is missing? she and her bf were out of town and their dog sitter evacuated without him_

_omg that’s horrible_

**Ariana**  
_i would sue the dog sitter, no joke  
thats definitely some kind of tort_

Ariana’s pre-law, and never misses a chance to remind them.

 **Kit-Kat**  
_Wtf is a tort  
Never mind pls don’t explain _

Mia snorts and closes iMessage. “How much longer?” she says aloud.

Liam taps the dashboard, and a holographic GPS display pops up. “Another half an hour.”

It’s raining again, dumping down in buckets. She’d forgotten what England is like; she stares out at the barely visible road through the windshield. “I’m wondering about our house,” she says.

Louis turns in his seat and glances at her. “Me too,” he says.

“I keep thinking about how much stuff we’d have to replace.”

“I know.” He’s quiet a moment. “Thank God it’s only stuff.”

“Yeah.”

Louis reaches over and rests his hand on Liam’s shoulder, squeezing him.

Mia leans forward. “Hey,” she whispers. “What did Niall do?”

Louis snorts. “I’m takin’ that one to me grave,” he says.

“It’s pretty raunchy, Mims,” Liam says. “Took me aback, and I’m married to your father.”

Louis flicks Liam in the ear.

“Watch it!” Liam says. “I’m driving in the rain, here!”

“You are not, it’s self-driving!”

“I’m supervising!”

“But who else did it involve?” Mia says. “Just tell me that.”

“Nope,” Louis says. “Not telling you a thing. I can have one or two boundaries with you.”

“Ugh, fine, then what present did you get me?”

“It’s a surprise,” Louis says.

“It’s a trip,” Liam says.

“ _Payno_.”

“A trip where?” Mia says, poking her dad in the back of the arm. “Where, where?”

Louis sighs. “It’s for winter break,” he says. “For you and a friend, or whoever you’d like to take, plus one security man. It’s Iceland, ‘cos you’ve wanted to go since you saw Niall’s honeymoon video, but the rest of us never wanted to. So, I figured you’re an adult now, you can go yourself.”

“Aw, Dad! I love that, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I also booked you six months of cryotherapy sessions. Zayn seems to think it’ll help your knee.”

“Really? Yeah, I’ll give that a try.”

“What’s there to do in Iceland?” Liam says.

“Snorkeling,” Louis says. “Glacier hiking... Oh, Mims, I also got you a film camera, so you can take some photos while you’re there, if you like. I know that bozo you were dating got you interested in all that.”

“Shit, okay, thanks. What kind?”

“Uhh, what was it,” Louis muses, putting his feet up on the dash. “A Leica, I think?”

“A Leica? Those aren’t cheap.”

“Yeah, ran me about seven grand.”

“ _Seven_ grand? Jesus, what if I drop it in a volcano?”

“Ahh,” Louis scoffs, flapping his hand. “‘S’what warranties are for. Don’t get that close to a volcano anyway.”

“Why are you buying me so much stuff?”

“He feels guilty,” Liam stage-whispers.

Louis shoots him a look, then clears his throat and says, “Let me spend a little money on you. Spent the last twenty years trying not to spoil you.”

“Alright, I’m not complaining,” Mia says.

“By the way,” he adds, “are you upset with Harry?”

Mia laughs. “Am I what?”

“Are you peeved with our dear Harold?”

“Why are you asking?”

“He told me he thought you might be,” Louis says. “He says he feels you’ve been tweakin’ him a bit, giving him a hard time.”

“Oh, my God,” Mia says, embarrassed and exasperated all at once. “Is he _that_ sensitive?”

“He really is,” Liam affirms, leaning over to turn on the defroster and rubbing his sleeve against the inside of the windshield. “Criminy, this rain is ridiculous.”

“Is it about my fight wiv him?” Louis says. “‘Cos I don’t want you to worry about that, sweets. You don’t have to take up my cause, and me and him have worked things out anyway. Plus, you know he loves you kids, it makes him sad to think he’s upset you.”

“Yeah, and we don’t want to tour with sad Harry,” Liam jokes. “Brings the whole production down.”

Mia laughs. “Alright, fine, I’ll text him something nice.”

“That’s a girl,” Louis says.

Liam starts fucking with the defroster again, and Louis slaps his hands down.

“I can’t see out the back window!” Liam exclaims. “I don’t want to lose our follow guys.”

“They’re just gonna meet us at the airport anyway, love, relax.”

Liam flaps a hand at him. “Hey, tell your daughter about the time you made Harry cry.”

“I never did!” Louis cries.

“Yeah, you did! You don’t remember?”

“Proper chatty today, aren’t we, sweetheart?”

“Please, I wanna hear this,” Mia begs.

“After Marlena was born,” Liam begins. “He kept calling her —“

“Liam!” Louis squeals at him.

“— kept calling her _Marcella_ , like this shit ITV show we used to watch —“

“It was pure accident! I got mixed up!”

“Oh my God,” Mia exclaims, laughing.

“And,” Liam continues, “one time he did it in front of Harold, who, y’know, just had a baby, he was touchy and whatnot, and he got all weepy —“

Louis heaves a theatrical sigh.

“And they had this little row about whether or not it was actually an accident, with Harry crying the whole time —“

“Of course it was! You know I’d never be unkind to a baby!”

“Not consciously, no.”

“You make me sound like a monster,” Louis says.

“No, no,” Liam says, reaching over to pat his thigh. “Just funny in hindsight.”

“Well, I never fucked up her name after _that,_ did I?”

“Marcella,” Mia repeats in amusement. “Dad, you’re so petty.”

“It was an _ac-ci-dent,_ ” he says, enunciating very hard.

“Right, I’m sure. You just happened to get confused on the name of Dad’s baby with his new husband.”

“Never fuckin’ met anybody named Marlena before, have I?” Louis grumbles.

Mia just smiles knowingly at him.

 

GRANTHAM, JUNE 25, 2036

The boys must hear them pull up, because they barrel out of the front door of Phoebe’s Victorian-style cottage house, which is surrounded on all sides by a blooming gorgeous riot of plants and flowers. They seem undeterred by the rain, if not energized by it.

Mia gets out of the car first, so they beeline for her, grabbing onto her like little monkeys. She tries to bend to hug them, but her knee protests with a ringing stab of pain, so she just holds them close and tousles their hair. She’s more relieved to see them than she expected to be.

Phoebe comes out, then, with a big umbrella. Louis gets out of the car fighting with his own — he hasn’t gotten it open before the twins are on him, clinging to him. Mia wonders why they’re being so affectionate, and then she remembers they’ve never been away this long before, not even for basketball camp.

“Ohh, boys,” Louis says, bending down to corral them into his arms. “God, you’re so big…”

“Tommo,” Liam says, laughing as he comes around the front of the car. “We’ve just seen them the other week!”

“I know, but they’re so big!”

“We’re huge,” Patrick confirms, and Max flexes. “So, did our house burn down yet?”

Louis looks over their heads at Phoebe, who’s walking up the path. “Oi! I told all you lot, don’t let them watch the news!”

“I didn’t! They must have snuck it!”

The twins run to assault Liam as he comes into view; he kneels for a hug, and they climb him like a jungle gym, mussing his hair. He beams at this, laughing.

“I thought I was special for the massive hug I got when they arrived,” Phoebe says. “Now I’m realizing they sort of give it away, don’t they?”

“Oh no, not to everyone,” Louis says, smiling.

Max runs to the car and opens the back door to reveal Amir, who’s asleep with his headphones in. Patrick yanks them out of his ears and shouts, “WAKE UP!” at him.

Amir jerks so hard he nearly topples out of he car, his eyes wide. “Christ,” he says, upon spotting his brothers.

“Case in point,” Liam says, getting up from the gravel drive.

“Sundaaaay,” Max shouts into the car. “Sunday, wakey wakey eggs and bakey.”

Sunday stirs, looking confused.

“Why does she get a nice, gentle hello?” Amir demands.

“Because she didn’t hold me down and fart on my head on the boat trip,” Patrick says, and goes to give Amir a wet willy, but his hand is quickly knocked down.

 

*

 

Everyone else goes out to the back yard right away to play with the goats. Amir finds hooved mammals creepy, so he lingers in the kitchen with Phoebe and Louis, quietly observing them as they make tea and chat with each other. He sits down at the little Formica table and picks up a Sharpie, doodling a design on the back of his hand and examining it under the light to see if it would be a cool tattoo.

Louis comes over and places a mug of tea down in front of him. Milk, no sugar, the way he likes.

“Thanks,” Amir says, setting the marker down.

Louis glances down as he takes a seat, and double takes at his son’s hand. “Oh, absolutely not.”

“What?” Amir says innocently.

“No visible tattoos ‘til you’re twenty-five,” Louis says. “Older, even. I promise you’ll regret them more than you think.”

“Aw, I thought his wings came out nice,” Phoebe says, smiling over her mug.

“Thank you,” Amir says. “They _are_ nice!”

“He found a good artist, I’ll give him that,” Louis admits. “And with no input from me, either.”

“But Lou, you’ve got so many _bad_ tattoos.”

“That’s how I know what artists to avoid! ‘Cos all the shit ones have done me!”

They laugh, and Phoebe reaches over to pat Amir on the arm. “You’re so grown-up now, it’s crazy,” she tells him, sounding a little wistful. “You and Mia both.”

“Are we?”

She reaches up to squeeze his cheeks in one hand. “So handsome, too,” she says to Louis.

Louis smiles. “Aye, he favors Zayn.”

“No, hush. He’s got your bone structure!”

“Yeah, he does,” Louis agrees.

“And chin,” Amir says.

“And chin.”

“Bit bony, though,” Phoebe says.

“Hey,” Amir complains.

Louis laughs. “He’s always been. I put him on Pediasure when he was like, eleven, ‘cos he had a growth spurt and I thought he was gonna just waste away right in front of us — tell her what you did, Amir.”

“I poured it out in the house plants,” Amir admits.

Phoebe chuckles. “Aw, that’s not very helpful.”

“Killed all our plants!” Louis says, sounding as annoyed as if this had happened yesterday.

“That stuff tasted disgusting, though,” Amir says. “Like chalk.”

“I know. Well, you’re alright now, anyway.”

 

*

 

They stay longer than they mean to. After tea, Louis and Phoebe squirrel away for a private chat, and in the back garden Mia starts up a game of football with Amir, the boys, and the goat (who participates by headbutting whoever has the ball at any given moment).

With everyone else distracted, Liam gets Sunday alone and hands her back the folder that Louis had given him.

She looks at it, seems to realize what it is, and then looks up at his face with trepidation.

“I just want to give you my blessing,” Liam says quietly, and Sunday seems to relax. “And I wanted to say a few things, just…”

She nods.

“I, uh.” He's already choking up. Getting through this is going to be impossible. “I want you to know that Louis never once felt obligated about, um, taking on such a big role in your life after me and him got together. It was always a joy for him, something he wanted and fought to do.”

Sunday’s jaw sets like she’s restraining emotions, too.

“And I wanted to, uh.” Liam clears his throat. His chest is tight and heavy. “I just, you know. When I thought I could lose you… you’re so precious to me, sweetheart. And when we fight about these things we fight about, especially lately… I need you to know I’m only ever trying to do what’s best for you.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I’m sorry,” Liam murmurs.

Sunday wraps her arms around him, hard, and he hugs her back. “Why are you always telling me you’re sorry?”

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“You don’t have to be sorry, I swear.”

Liam holds her tighter, stroking her curly hair. “Okay.”

 

*

 

Louis is in peak mother hen mode, only separated from his kids by great effort; it takes Liam at least four tries to herd him back out to the car.

Patrick ruins the third try by very quietly asking them, “Do you _have_ to leave again?” which makes Louis drop to his knees to crush the twins in a hug.

“My sweet boys,” he murmurs. “Squishy lads.”

“We’re squishy?” Max says, laughing.

“Squishy like I like to squeeze you.”

Liam crouches down to join the hug. Louis is so slight he can almost get his arms around the three of them all at once.

“We’re only ever a FaceTime away,” Liam assures them.

Max reaches up for the back of Liam’s shirt and grips it hard. Liam tousles his hair in response.

After a minute or so of this, he manages to gently extricate his husband from their sons and sheepdog him to the car, making sure he doesn’t even turn around until he has his hand on the door handle.

“I’ll let you all know when I hear anything about the house,” Louis shouts over his shoulder. “Phoebe, our next show’s gonna be on live-streaming! I sent you the password!”

“I have it!” she shouts. The boys are off somewhere, probably harassing her rooster or taking apart her toaster to see how it works, but the older kids are standing beside her and waving real big. “We’ll watch, I promise!”

“I’ll wave at the camera for you!” Louis yells back.

“Bye everyone,” Liam calls.

“Byeeee!” they chorus.

“Bye loves!” Louis adds.

“Tommo, my God,” Liam says, opening the passenger side door for him and ushering him in. “We’re leaving them with your sister, not in a debtor’s prison.”

“Oh, I’m just worked up,” Louis says, settling back in his seat and kicking his feet up on the dash, wincing. His back’s been bothering him again since last night’s concert. Liam goes around and gets on the driver’s side, then inputs _Stansted Airport_ into the GPS. “But it’ll be good for them to have a bit of time in the country, in this good air.”

“Definitely.”

“I know for a fact they’re not gonna watch the show,” Louis says. “They’re gonna end up watching some shit reality show instead. I swear not one of those kids gives a shit that we’re the biggest boyband of all time.”

Liam laughs. “That’s the way of kids,” he says. “So did Mia talk to her coach?”

The car starts rolling down the gravel road, through the forest. It’s only drizzling, now, and a misty fog has descended on the countryside.

“Yeah, and she’s not happy about her missing practices, but, like — well, it isn’t like this happened during the season, right, and Mims needs a bit of a break. She’s had smoke inhalation, people _die_ of that. The last thing she needs is to be doin’ two-a-days. She can go for runs in the meantime, it’s not like her legs are gonna shrivel up and fall off.”

Liam laughs at this imagery. “Yeah, I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”

“You know, she thinks Mia has an attitude problem.”

“Who does?”

“Coach Hewitt. She told her she’s too stubborn, and it hurts her as a team player. I guess Mims gave her some static when they talked.”

Liam grins. “Now what exactly do we mean by static?”

“She might’ve dropped an F-bomb on her,” Louis mumbles.

“Might’ve, huh?”

“Nothing too severe. ‘Fucking wildfires.’”

Liam laughs.

“I told her to straighten up,” Louis adds.

“Alright, good.”

“But I mean, come on. Race on home after you’ve had a near death experience so you can stand around on a pitch doing kick-ups and scrimmaging? Just not fucking necessary.”

“No, agreed.” Liam twiddles with the windshield wiper, which has put itself on too low a setting for his taste. “I had a chat with Sunday,” he says.

“Oh, good.”

“I told her it’s alright that you signed the papers.”

Louis reaches over and strokes his hair. “Hey,” he says, “maybe around this time in a few years we’ll be watching her in the Olympics, yeah?”

“Oh, don’t say that, I get nervous enough watching her rounds now.” Liam had paid for a special equestrian channel so that they could watch Sunday in her first-ever televised ride this spring, and he annoyed the crap out of Louis by quietly sucking air between his clenched teeth every single time she went over a fence. Of course, the fences she jumps are like fucking five feet tall now.

“Hey, speaking of daughter chats, you know what Mims wants to do with her life now?” Louis says. “Be a first responder! Or disaster relief, or somethin’ like that. She was telling me that what happened made her think she only feels really fulfilled when she’s helping people in a crisis. So now I’ve got that to worry about.”

“I think she’d actually be quite good at that,” Liam says. “But maybe she could be a helper in a more removed way, and not like, y’know, on the front lines.”

“Christ, I hope. I asked her if there’s not anything else she’d like to do, and she said she always enjoyed acting in school, but she thinks she’s not good or driven enough to make it in Hollywood… I mean, she grew up seeing how tough it is out there. And she doesn’t think she could have a professional footie career, not after her knee.”

“There’s expansion teams,” Liam says.

“I mentioned that. The competition’s just so stiff, she’d be killing herself and straining her injury just to end up riding the bench.”

“But it might be worth it just to get in one or two games. Then she can say for the rest of her life that she played professionally, y’know?”

“Yeah…”

“She could even go play in England, they’ve got so many clubs there.”

“I don’t think that’s even something she wants.”

“No?”

Louis shakes his head. “She’s never talked about it as a viable option. I think she’d only try for that if I suggested it, to please me. I don’t want her to feel obligated to it.”

“Well, you’d know better than I would.”

“And honestly, I’d worry, with how crap the women’s leagues still get treated. It’s a right shame, that is.” Louis shrugs. “I dunno. I like to see her excited about something… I think she’s felt a bit lost, lately.”

“Are you sure she’s not discounting herself a bit?” Liam says. “Rejecting things out of hand ‘cos she’s afraid to fail?”

“All I can do is encourage her. Hard when somebody’s, y’know, entirely discouraged.”

Liam isn’t quite sure if they’re talking about Louis or his daughter, so he injects some levity by suggesting, “Hire her to coach the Rovers.”

“Very funny.”

“Hey, or maybe she and Evan can start some sort of search and rescue nonprofit. Go and look for missing people in the woods with drones and things.”

“That’s actually not a half bad idea, that.” Louis shifts in his seat, leaning against the door. “Y’know, I don’t want her to move away,” he admits. “I dunno what it is. I miss Amir loads, but I’m happy he’s off being independent. Mia, it’s like, I don’t like to think about her going away, or me not seeing her all the time. I feel shitty about it, I don’t want to put that on her head, but maybe it is anyway. I mean, she didn’t even apply to unis outside California.”

Liam hesitates, choosing his words delicately. “I think you sort of see her as a best mate, too, not just as your kid,” he says.

“Oh, definitely.” Louis goes quiet for a long moment.

In an effort to change the subject, Liam says, “I think it’s sweet you’ve basically adopted Evan, now.”

“Ha. I never thought he was a bad kid. It’s you who was always so suspicious of him and Jason.”

“Jason, that twerp,” Liam says.

They roll out onto the main road, heading toward the A1. Liam settles back in his seat, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He’s more exhausted than he realized.

“He’s in a _band_ , now, Jason is,” Louis says, sounding amused. “He and I are still pals on social media. I see him post videos, and they’re, y’know...”

“Not good?”

“I don’t want to be mean,” Louis says. “I really think it’s good that he’s expressing himself creatively. But they sound, uh, bad.”

“You should offer to manage them,” Liam jokes, and Louis laughs.

“Can’t say I know much of anything about noise music, except that I don’t like it,” he says.

“Thank God jazz is actually nice to listen to,” Liam says. “‘Cos I don’t know a thing about it, but at least I can look like I’m enjoying myself when I listen to Amir play.”

“Jazz is good ‘cos you just find the downbeat and nod your head,” Louis says. “Easy as piss, even the improv stuff.”

“Not to play, though.”

“Oh, no, it’s crazy to play,” Louis says. “I’m always amazed at him, my music brain just doesn’t work like his does, to make those fresh melodies like that. And for the whole band to be on the same wavelength? He’s this freaky math genius. I can see him do the calculations moment by moment when he plays.”

“You should tell him that,” Liam says.

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

 

BRADFORD, JUNE 25, 2036

Harry pulls into the spot in front of the garage and turns in his seat, looking at Toni with concern. “You feel any better?”

Toni shrugs, her tight curls bouncing. Her lips are stained purple.

“Alright,” Harry says, getting out of the car and opening up the back seat so he can fetch the massive basket of blueberries they picked. “Sorry, love. We can see if Zayn’s mum has anything for you, if not I’ll run to the shops.”

“Really?” Toni says, slipping out of her side of the car. “I thought you guys couldn’t be out in public right now.”

“I’ll wear big sunglasses,” Harry says, winking at her.

They head up the hill of the front garden; the elder Maliks’ new house overlooks the long street it’s on, with a nice little porch on the front. That’s where Zayn and Marlena are, just sitting on the swing. She has a tablet in her hand and seems to be showing him something.

Toni staggers up the front steps like she’s been wounded in battle; Zayn looks up and says, “How was blueberry picking?” and she just lets out a long groan, then disappears into the house.

“Ginger!” Harry yells after her. “Ask your gran if she has fresh ginger! And go lie down for a bit!”

“Okay,” Toni hollers back.

Zayn and Marlena look at Harry expectantly. He sets the blueberry basket down heavily on the porch. “I let her eat way too many,” he explains. “She threw up.”

“Ew,” Marlena says with a shudder. She has the same phobia of puking that Zayn says Amir had at her age. In April, one of her classmates threw up on the table next to her, and while everyone else was screaming, she had very calmly gotten up from her seat, walked out of the classroom down to the front office, called Zayn and said, “Dad? Please come get me. Hurry.”

Harry quickly adds, “Not in the car, luckily.”

“Ooh, wait, what’s Gran gonna do with the blueberries? Can she make a pie?” Marlena says, ducking out from under Zayn’s arm and heading for the house.

“I know they’ve got ginger tea, if not actual ginger,” Zayn says to Harry.

Harry grabs his daughter by the shoulders as she goes by. “Lena, be a love and put on a kettle?”

“Sure,” Marlena says agreeably.

“And maybe suggest a cobbler,” Harry says. “Less trouble than a pie… although I’m happy to help her make it.”

“He worked at a bakery, your dad did,” Zayn says drily, and Harry gives him the finger behind their daughter’s back. Zayn grins.

“Can you still put ice cream on cobbler?” Marlena says.

Harry nods.

“Okay,” she says agreeably, and goes off inside.

Harry comes over and takes a seat next to Zayn, leaning back against the porch swing. He groans softly and stretches his legs out. “I feel terrible,” he says. “Poor Toni.”

“Aw, nah, kids that age are just like that,” Zayn says. “They throw up loads.”

“Huh,” Harry says. “Reckon that’s true... I wonder why, though?”

Zayn shrugs. “No idea. Actually, that’s something Louis told me years ago. Just ‘kids throw up a lot,’ no follow-up.”

Harry laughs. “Tommo, the renowned pediatrician.”

“How was it otherwise?” Zayn asks him.

“Fun, fun.” Harry lifts up his hand, which is covered in small plasters that have Barbie on them. “I had a bit of a mishap myself.”

“Yeah?”

“Stuck my hand right into what I thought was a blueberry bush… was a briar bush.”

“Oh, Haz,” Zayn says, chuckling.

“Hey, the sun was going down…”

Zayn takes his injured hand and gives it a tender kiss. “Who bandaged you up?”

“Toni. She’s quite the little medic.” Harry snuggles up against Zayn, who wraps an arm around him. “How was it while we were gone?”

“Good,” Zayn says. “My dad seems to be, uh. Less forgetful since I last saw him.”

“Oh, good.”

“Yeah, think that medication’s done well for ‘im.”

“He can keep all his grandkids’ names straight, that’s a good sign,” Harry murmurs.

Zayn snorts. “He called you Louis earlier.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, we were talkin’, an’ he’s like, when Louis gets back with Toni…”

“You correct him?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Nah.”

“You talk with your mum at all?”

Zayn lets out a long, tired sigh, then stares out at the road for a while. Harry can tell from the set of his mouth that he wants to smoke a cigarette, but is refraining for Harry’s sake.

“I mean, she reads the paper,” Zayn mutters. “They all do. I just don’t want to worry her. I told her it’s all bullshit, I’m fine. Been sober sixteen years, still sober. I mean, it’s true. I _am_ sober.”

This kind of glosses over the terrifying lurch he’s had, going from sixteen years sober to two days sober in the blink of an eye, but Harry just nods.

“We can spend another night,” he says, reaching up to cup Zayn’s face in his hand, moving his thumb over the swoop of his cheekbone. “Be with the girls.”

“I thought we had an early rehearsal tomorrow,” Zayn says, flicking his eyes over to meet Harry’s.

“Not the end of the world to miss it.”

“I don’t think we should. I don’t leave tonight, I might never leave.”

For once, Harry knows what he means. It’s so tempting to just stay here in this warm house full of love and good smells, hearing his daughters talk in sweet voices and giggle down the hall from him. Hearing Kip, their Jack Russell, hurry down the rickety tall staircase with his little collar jingling. Staying up after Zayn’s gone to bed and watching BBC with his in-laws, like he does whenever they visit.

He spent the drive to Bradford reading through Louis’ journal, which he’d told Zayn about. At first Zayn balked at him reading that and told him to toss it, but Harry promised all he wanted was to better understand his journey to sobriety, and he slowly relented.

Though most of the journal is understandably just Louis babbling about his feelings, there are a lot of sharp and precise flashes of insight into Zayn. One thing that stood out to him in particular was Louis’ perspective on how healed he seemed by rehab, and how it was a chance for him to repair his battered self-image. Harry’s allowing himself to really consider the idea of Zayn going back to rehab after the tour — not full-on, lockdown rehab, but something more therapeutic. Just somewhere to go and relax and be heard, away from all the insanity, the entitled public and the backstabbing sponsors.

It isn’t just because he drank, it’s because he’s seemed so sad and tired again lately, and Harry can’t seem to shake him out of it this time. It’s like he’s a sports car that stalls out sometimes, but now he’s been stalled out for months.

Harry doesn’t want to float the idea yet, though. They have time. Zayn seems okay for now; if they just cling to each other and take each day as it comes, it’ll be okay.

He finds that now the shock has worn off, he isn’t angry with Zayn at all. He always though he would be if Zayn started drinking again, especially with their girls still as young as they are. He isn’t, though. He’s just scared. Every moment of the day he wants to hold Zayn to him and kiss his face, stroking his graying hair back from his temples. He wants to turn their assistants away and take it upon himself to do dutiful little husband chores, like pick up refills of Zayn’s prescriptions and make him breakfast.

“Alright,” Harry tells him, “we’ll get our flight.” He leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. “Wanna go check on Toni? Make sure Lena hasn’t set the kitchen on fire?”

Zayn laughs. “Yeah.”

 

CALABASAS, AUGUST 27, 2036

None of them are prepared for seeing the house in the state it’s in.

It didn’t completely burn to the ground. The county of Los Angeles confirmed this, five days after the fire, and then the dads sent teams of hired excavators to go in and fetch what was left of their belongings. Their paintings, some just impregnated with ash but others so damaged by the fire that they were unrecognizable, the frames themselves warped. Their furniture, or what was left of it. Any surviving personal effects.

Mia and Amir returned to L.A. after two weeks, flying back in Harry’s jet and heading up the coast to Malibu. They didn’t go look at the Calabasas house — they didn’t want to do it without the others. It was the most scattered the seven of them had been in ages, with the boys in England, Louis and Liam in Belgium, and Sunday back to riding in competitions up and down the coast.

(Sunday had flown herself back to the states alone the same night that Mia and Amir left the twins behind in Doncaster to head out for Bradford. They told her she was welcome to tag along, Trisha wouldn’t at all mind having her, but she said, “I’ve seriously got to get back to the circuit, I can’t miss this next show,” then booked a ticket to Portland. Mia tried not to be offended.)

So the two of them got keys to the storage unit that the excavator guys had put all their stuff in, then spent an afternoon accounting for things. Burnt old laptop. Burnt Fendi couch. Burnt fountain statue from the garden. Clothes, most burnt but some not. Scorched plastic tub of paperwork that was warped but somehow intact. Burnt piano — Amir was more upset over that than anything else.

Mia was devastated, but she told herself they were all just things. Everyone was alright, and she has plenty of memories tucked away in her room at the Malibu house, Polaroids and soccer trophies and birthday cards.

The magnitude of the loss didn’t really sink in until the tour was finished and everyone migrated home at the end of the summer, then met to take a look at the damage. They gather out front on a late August afternoon, standing in the front driveway and staring up at the scorched, blackened ruins of their once-beautiful house.

Mia glances over at her dad, who has his arms folded and his fist pressed to his mouth. Liam is standing next to him, his hands squeezing the twins’ shoulders. Max and Patrick look numb, like their eleven-year-old brains can’t even process this.

“I want to go in,” Sunday says.

Louis reaches down into the box of hard hats beside him and wordlessly hands her one.

Liam shakes his head, though. “I don’t think anyone should,” he says sternly. “If anyone wants to poke around for things that we’re still missing, _I’ll_ go in.”

“‘Scuse me,” Louis says, “how come you get to be Mr Head of Household over there? How come I don’t get to protect _you_? I want to be the one to go in.”

“They said it’s structurally sound, anyone can go in,” Mia says.

“No thanks,” Amir says. “I don’t need any chandeliers falling on my head.”

“They told us the chandelier already fell, Amir.”

“We had more than one!”

“I want to wear a hard hat,” Max says.

“Yeah, and I wanna go inside,” Patrick adds. “I wanna see our room.”

“You two are absolutely not going in,” Liam says, at the exact same time as Louis says, “Over my dead body are either of you going in that death trap.”

Liam turns to Louis. “Death trap? You were about to let Sunday go in!”

“I don’t _want_ her to go in! She’s an adult now, is all, so it’s her decision.”

“Please don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Sunday says, sounding a little amused.

They all fall quiet for a moment, staring at the house some more.

“Why don’t I watch the twins, and anyone else who wants to go in can go in?” Amir suggests.

Max and Patrick sigh mutinously.

“Can we at least wear hard hats, then,” Patrick says.

Louis reaches over and plops one down on his head, then on Max’s. “Go wild, kiddos.”

Amir semi-corrals the boys, who start hitting each other in the hats with rocks and sticks, like they’re testing the structural integrity of them. Leaving them to this, he leans against the back fender of Mia’s Audi, looking as drained and sad as she feels.

He’s wearing a leather jacket of Zayn’s that he stole from his tour clothes before they left London. “He’s not gonna miss it,” he’d said to Mia. “He brought like ten of these.” But Zayn noticed as soon as he got to Ireland, and texted him _Um hello there you little jacket thief! :)_ Amir posted a screencap of the ensuing back-and-forth on Twitter, and it immediately became a meme, which was a nice alternative to everyone on the Internet only talking about their dad to speculate about his drinking.

Mia noticed Amir’s been wearing the jacket nearly non-stop since he took it, like it’s a Zayn-scented security blanket. Especially this week, when Zayn went back into rehab. He promised it would be for less than a month, and Mia thinks it’s wise for him to go, but she and Amir always worry about him anyway.

He did stick out the tour, though; they ended up doing a great job in the end. Made money hand over fist and put on a great series of shows. At their last date, their Cardiff date, the five of them had their first big public group hug in who knows how long. Mia teared up, watching that on TV with her brother. She thinks he got a little misty too, though he wouldn’t admit it if he did. Amir didn’t even put his mini-hookah down for most of the concert — he said watching their parents perform as a middle-aged boy band is cringe enough that he needed nicotine if he was going to do it a second time in as many months.

Louis had texted her a half hour after that show ended, _Oi I was in cardiff on tour when i found out i was pregnant with you!! liam just reminded me_! She texted back, _Daaaaaad... gross,_ but briefly wondered what that had been like for him. He was only a few years older than she is now. Did he feel like the world was ending, or was any part of him happy about it?

She knows all their fans and handlers were furious at Louis for getting pregnant and leaving the tour, and the older she gets, the more that pisses her off. They acted like he belonged to them, or something. And then once she was born, it was all fuss over the cute baby, like they hadn’t just spent months slamming her poor dad when he was sick and vulnerable. Really, it’s the same thing they just did to Zayn — eviscerating him only to turn around and pretend they’re worried about him now that he’s back in rehab. The entertainment industry is full of such disgusting hypocrites, she can’t even believe there was a time when she thought she wanted to be an actress. Fuck that. Keep it.

The gossip mill has been after the kids again lately, too. Drama with the band always bleeds over onto them; the curious public picks over the bones of their dads’ controversies until they end up moving onto the kids, sniffing and licking them, deluging them in hate mail, reminding them that they’re watched at all times and don’t belong to themselves. They shield themselves with private social media accounts and shrunken circles, but Mia still ends up poring over the comments of insipid _Daily Mail_ commentary on pap photos of them. It isn’t even that they’re unkind, because many of them are nice; it’s the creepy familiarity. _They seem like good kids._ She doesn’t know why this bothers her so much, but it makes her tongue itch in her mouth. They don’t _know_ her.

Mia takes a hard hat, too, and so do Liam and Louis.

“Let’s stick close to each other,” Louis says as they walk up to the house. “No wandering off, and don’t even try to go upstairs, alright? The fire chief said it’s safe, but you know what, I don’t fuckin’ believe him.”

“You’re so trusting, Dad,” Mia says.

“Ha-ha.”

“You’re cute in that hard hat,” Liam says to him. “You look like a builder... Just need to spit and adjust yourself, and tell me the project’s gonna take three months longer than you thought it would.”

Louis chuckles at this and gives Liam a squeeze around the waist. Mia had expected them to be a little sick of each other after being on tour together for two months, but if anything, they’re grosser than ever, like they’re teenagers again.

Mia’s only seen the two of them a few times since they’ve been home — she’s been staying close to campus for practices by crashing with her old roommate Brynn. Liam and Louis, meanwhile, have been living with the boys on the docked yacht while they scope out properties in Sacramento County.

Louis was very against the idea of living on the yacht for any period of time, but his husband and sons were so excited about the idea that he eventually gave in. Liam apparently kept saying, “It’s like in _You’ve Got Mail!_ ”

Mia suspects that the reason Liam is so enthusiastic about the idea is because he’s terrified of another fire and thinks they’ll all be safer in a boat on the water, but she doesn’t want to point this out to her dad and make him feel like a dick.

Sunday’s been on the road all summer, and Amir and Evan have been, very unexpectedly, crashing at Jason’s. Apparently Jason flew home in a panic when he thought his house might have burned down (his parents couldn’t tell him, as they’re off summering in Vienna) and when he found out everything was fine, he reached out to his ex-best friends and asked if they were okay. Evan said he was alright but kind of miserable being trapped on the Upper East Side with his parents watching his every move, and Amir said he was fine but getting lonely in the Malibu house. So Jason offered up two of the bedrooms in his parents’ mansion, and they’ve been having a giant sleepover ever since, playing video games and smoking weed and skateboarding all day like they’re sixteen again.

Mia asked her brother if it was weird at all for Jason that Evan and Amir are together, but Amir said it’s only been ‘kind of weird’ one time, when Jason accidentally walked in on them having sex. Mia has no idea how that could only count as ‘kind of weird’, but she was afraid to ask. Boys are just like that sometimes.

They all step into the foyer. It’s kind of a shocking scene: the walls and staircase are scorched and blackened, the paint and wallpaper peeling off the walls. It’s good they’re all wearing hard-soled boots, because there’s crystal littered everywhere from where the chandelier crashed to the floor.

They silently part into twosomes, with Mia and Louis going off into the parlor and Liam and Sunday heading down the hall into the kitchen.

In the parlor, they find the excavators didn’t even bother trying to remove their other piano, which would be barely recognizable were it not for the familiar spot it occupies in the room. Mia looks around, shocked at the sight of the black walls and the ruined emptiness of it all.

She turns to Louis, and sees he looks emotional.

“Dad,” she says gently, going over to him.

Louis shakes his head and rubs at his nose. “It’s just sad,” he says. “I never thought — God, I never even wanted to live in Los Angeles. I always hated it here, you know that. But this was our home, you know?”

“I know,” Mia murmurs.

So many parties here, so many birthdays. All the fights and tears and joys. The day a recruiter from UCLA had come to the front door and asked to see Mia Tomlinson-Malik; the day Louis and Liam brought the twins home from the hospital, all teeny and fragile. The night they came home from the vet after they put Bo down. The morning she moved out to go to college, and took one last look behind her.

They traipse back down the hall, walking slowly, crunching over ash. They don’t find Liam or Sunday in the kitchen (Mia notes with sadness that the plants that always hung from the ceiling are dead, burnt to a crisp) and move on.

They find them out in the backyard, standing on a grassy knoll and talking. Sunday points to something down the hill, amongst the trees, and Liam nods.

The two of them seem to be closer lately, ever since Sunday asked Louis to adopt her, which Mia finds sort of peculiar. She wouldn’t have expected that, but then, she doesn’t know what it’s like to be a dad.

Mia’s thrilled about the whole thing, though. Sunday had waited until after she’d talked to Liam to tell her stepsiblings — they were sitting around in Phoebe’s back garden after the twins went to bed, drinking a bottle of wine they’d sneaked from her cupboard. Amir reacted in his usual way, going, “Duh, dumbass, you should have asked him that like ten years ago,” but Mia jumped up to go wrap her up in a hug, cheering, “Oh shit, we’re sisters, we’re sisters! Wait, are you changing your name?”

“No,” Sunday said, laughing, “not changing my name.”

“You don’t wanna be a Tomlinson-Payne like the boys? Don’t want to join team Tommo?”

“I’m already on team Tommo,” Sunday assured her.

Amir shook his head. “The duchess is too good for us,” he deadpanned in a British accent. “Sickening.”

“Ghastly,” Mia added.

“Frightful.”

Sunday just sighed at them.

Mia and Louis walk over to join her and Liam. Their trees are burnt to a crisp, the ground underneath them gray and black, but with a soft downy layer of white ash on top that looks like snow. The grass is mostly fine: there’s a strange line where the burned-up ground meets the lawn, and everything from then on is green and alive. Liam’s garden outside the kitchen windows is intact: the flower bushes and tomato plants are blooming, if a little wilted from lack of attention.

Mia kneels in the grass and finds a tiny, pale violet flower. She’s always thought these were so pretty. When she was a kid, she asked Liam if he could plant more of them, and he laughed and said, “Sweetie, those are weeds.” Mia pouted and asked him to plant some anyway.

She plucks it and twirls it in her fingers, then extends her hand to Liam. “Remember?” she says.

Liam squints at it for a moment, like he does when he’s not wearing his cheaters, then smiles. “I do,” he says.

“You never did plant more of these.”

“They’re a _weed_ , Mims, you can’t exactly buy them at the nursery. But I did make a point of not pulling them up when I saw them.”

“Aww, I didn’t know about that,” Mia says. “Thank you.”

“Payno,” Louis says, “I’ve just realized I have no idea how this works, but d’you think we can just uproot your garden and bring it to our new place, once we have one? I hate to think of like ten years of work goin’ to waste…”

Liam squeezes Louis on the shoulder. “It’s alright. I’ll take a few cuttings today, but it’ll be nice to start fresh.”

“So much stuff to start fresh with,” Sunday murmurs. “You guys are going to have to do so much furniture shopping...”

“Hey, don’t sound sad,” Liam tells her. “You know I love furniture shopping.”

Sunday laughs and nods. “You do.”

Louis glances at his watch. “You know, we’ve got dinner reservations at seven, Payno.”

They’re celebrating Liam’s birthday early, since Sunday has a horse show on the actual day. She’s been very apologetic about this, but Liam keeps protesting that he’s too old to care much about his birthday anyway. This is probably just a cover for the fact that the dads’ usual practice of throwing blowout parties on each other’s birthdays has been preempted by their house burning down.

“Oh, we do!” Liam says. “Totally forgot.”

Louis elbows him in the side. “Got a big cake for you in the fridge on that fucking boat of yours, too.”

“Cake!” Liam cheers.

“Cake, cake, cake,” Mia chants.

“Ice cream cake,” Louis clarifies.

“Ice cream cake!”

“Ice cream cake, ice cream cake, ice cream cake…”

 

*

 

Amir has never been very good at watching the twins — only a minute or so has gone by before he gets distracted watching a video some of his Juilliard friends posted of them trying to catch a mouse in their apartment while drunk. It’s only when he realizes the twins have gone quiet that he looks up from his watch in alarm.

Max is engrossed in his own watch, now, the too-large hard hat tipping forward over his forehead and in danger of falling off. But Patrick is standing a few yards in front of them, looking up the house, arms folded tightly.

Amir leans forward off the car and nudges Max, who glances up, his brown fringe flopping. “What’s up with Paddy?”

Max shrugs. “I think he’s sad,” he whispers.

“Paddy,” Amir calls.

Patrick turns around, swiping at his cheeks. “What?”

“You crying?”

“No,” Patrick says defiantly, but his dark eyes are wet.

“C’mere.”

“I’m not crying!”

“It’s alright, little man,” Amir says. “Our house burned down, we’re all sad.”

Patrick stands there, his jaw set hard. He looks a lot like Liam when he’s being stubborn.

Max raises his arms as if offering a hug.

“I don’t want a hug,” he sniffs.

“Yeah you do,” Max says confidently. “Gimme a hug.”

“I don’t.”

Amir and Max ambush him, creeping forward with their arms outstretched like zombies, and Patrick starts laughing. “Stop…”

“Huuuuug,” Max intones. “Huuuuug.”

He wraps his arms around Patrick, and Amir follows suit, squeezing them both.

Patrick hiccups. “I thought maybe it wasn’t as bad as they said,” he says. “But it is.”

Amir glances up, taking it all in again: the eerie, charred gray trees surrounding the house, the blackened walls and empty windows from where the glass exploded, looking like sightless eyes. The scorched basketball court — even the netting burned off the rim.

He’s struck again by the realization that he really could have died here, and a lump rises in his throat. He ruffles his brothers’ hair, then lets them go. Max remains clinging to Patrick, resting his head on his shoulder.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Amir tells them. “You guys are gonna get a new house you like even better, you’ll forget this ever happened.”

“But we have to move,” Patrick groans. “We have to leave all our friends and our basketball team, and go to a new school…”

“Yeah, but we get new friends and a new team,” Max says. “And then we’ll have old friends _and_ new friends. So actually, we’ll have twice as many friends as we had before.”

“I like the friends I have now,” Patrick mutters, getting a little teary-eyed again. “I don’t want to move _north_ , what’s up north? I like the beach and stuff, I like it here.”

“If we don’t move, it’ll just happen again in a few years,” Max says. “That’s what the dads say. It’s ‘cos climate change.”

“Stupid fucking climate change.”

“You’ll have me at school,” Max reminds him.

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs.

Max squeezes him one last time, then lets him go. Max really is a sweet kid: he’s always been the least ball-hoggy player on his basketball teams, he volunteers with Best Buddies, he followed in Amir’s footsteps to get elected class president, but without even running — he got nominated by his classmates, who he’s universally well-liked by, even the ones who don’t actually know him. It makes sense he’d have little fear about moving. He lives in the moment and likes everybody, like a golden retriever.

“You’re starting middle school now, anyway,” Amir says to Patrick. “It’s not as bad being the new kid that way. Everyone else is gonna feel out of place too, even if they already know people from elementary.”

Max laughs. “Meer, why are you being so nice lately?”

“Huh?”

“You are, you’re being creepy nice,” Patrick says, eyes narrowed.

“I can be nice to you guys!”

Max shakes his head. “The last time you were this nice is when I had to get my appendix out.”

“Oh, I know what it is,” Patrick says. “It’s ‘cos him and his boyfriend are back together.”

“That’s it,” Max crows, and the two of them start making kissy noises.

“You’re both obnoxious,” Amir says, which just makes them get louder. “Never mind, know what, you’re not going to make any friends at your new school, ‘cos nobody’s gonna be able to stand you.”

Patrick ignores this and jeers, “Are you gonna _ma-arry_ Evan?” Amir doesn’t answer, and he turns to Max: “He’s so red. He’s blushing.”

Max grins.

“I am not,” Amir snaps. “I don’t blush.”

“You do so,” Max teases.

“No, I’m not like you little Victorian ghost children, I actually have some melanin in my face.”

“That sounds like something someone who’s blushing says,” Patrick says.

“Hey, Amir, if you and Evan get married, do you get half his dad’s money?” Max says. “‘Cos I want a new skateboard. So make sure you don’t sign a prenup.” He pronounces it _prenoop_ , like he’s only seen the word and never heard it spoken.

“I can’t believe I was being nice to you idiots.”

“Okay, Mrs. Evan,” Patrick says.

Amir gives them the finger as they crack up laughing.

 

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES, AUGUST 27, 2036

After dinner, nobody wants to part ways. The dads keep making excuses to drag out the evening, and the older kids linger on the boat until Mia, sounding a bit manic, says: “Hey, this is random, but some of my teammates wanted to have a pickup game tonight, and we didn’t have enough people… do you guys want to come play some soccer?”

“A kickabout?” Louis says, lighting up.

“A scrimmage,” Mia corrects.

“Yeah, a kickabout!”

“Dad, you’ve lived in America for twenty years, you have to learn a couple American words.”

“I can’t believe you’d even say that to me.”

It’s a testament to how sad they all are about the house that even Amir agrees to this, and the seven of them pile into the Range Rover to drive over to UCLA.

The dome is up over the turf field, and the stadium is so brightly lit it could be daytime; Mia and Louis drag two little squishy goals out from the locker room so they can play with half a field, and then practice passing until Ariana, Kat and Erin show up, dressed in full uniform with their sleek ponytails bobbing.

“How do we divide this up?” Ariana says, hands on her hips. “I think it’s only fair to have two Bruins to a team, no offense to everyone else.”

“None taken, we promise,” Liam says.

“Amir, Sunday, Patrick and Erin on my team,” Mia says, pointing each of them out as she says their names. She’s clearly in _serious competitor_ mode. “Dad, Liam, Max, Kat and Ariana on the other. No goalies, two front three back. That work?”

“I’m a bit offended you’ve abandoned your father, but okay,” Louis says, grinning.

“Just ‘cos it’s more fun to play against you.”

“Only joking, love.”

Ariana hands out pinnies to the opposing team, and Amir unhappily puts his on. He’s allergic to polyester, though he never mentions this to anyone, because it kind of pushes the limits of acceptable daintiness for a guy.

Mia calls out positions and banishes Amir to the right side of the field, where he roams sort of aimlessly, watching the very fast passing between Mia and Erin. Louis gets a foot on the ball and whaps it away from them, toward the other goal; Patrick nimbly snatches it out of the air with his hands.

“Oh, shoot,” he exclaims when he realizes, and everyone laughs. “I’m used to basketball.”

“Beautiful catch though, Paddy,” Liam says. “You’d make a good keeper.”

“PK,” Kat says.

Mia swings around, her black ponytail whipping through the air. “Nooo, indirect.”

“PK, Mia,” Ariana concurs.

“They’re right,” Louis says. “Although _technically,_ it was an accident, so there shouldn’t have been stoppage at all.”

“Dad,” Max exclaims. “You’re on our team!”

“I’m on the team of fair play,” he says.

“Since when?” Liam says with a bellowing laugh, and Louis leans over to him so he can flick him in the ear.

Amir bends over to retie his shoe again. His sneakers are more for aesthetics than athletics, and he’s getting a blister.

“Amir!” Mia barks. “Make a wall!”

He looks up at her, squinting against the floodlights. In the last five seconds she somehow closed the ten or so yards between them and is now hovering over him, hands on her hips.

“Make a _what?”_ Amir says.

She drags him to his feet and pulls him over to the goal. “Link arms with Sunday.”

Amir does so, baffled. Sunday grins at him.

“Probably best to just do what we’re told,” she says.

Patrick links arms with Amir on the other side. “Soccer sucks,” he says, but in a quiet voice, as though he’s trying not to break Louis’ heart with this declaration.

Ariana kicks the ball at them, and Amir breaks the line a little by ducking. It bounces off the top of his head (“Ow!”) and goes widely left — Louis dashes in and puts a foot on it, gets around Mia, and kicks a goal.

The other team cheers, and Mia rounds on Amir. “Dude, if the ball comes at your head, head it.”

“ _Head it_?” Amir says, rubbing the spot where the ball hit and then fixing his hair. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I am not that invested.”

Kat and Erin start laughing.

“How are you going to make it in the music industry with that attitude?” Mia says, adjusting her shinguards. “You need to be all about the competition, all the time.”

“Uh, I’m good, crazy, but thanks.”

“Mia,” Louis calls. “You still ‘ave that vulnerability on your left, you notice that? I slipped right by you.”

“It’s her knee,” Kat says. “We’ve been working on that in drills.”

“I’m just not as fast on the pivot as I used to be,” Mia admits.

“Well, just make sure you drop back,” Louis says, noodling around with the ball as he sets it up in the middle of the field. “You’re still fast as anything on the breakaway, so let them come to you, keep up the pressure. Don’t put yourself in a spot where you have to turn your whole body.”

“Dad, you know I do all that in actual games,” she says. “It’s just hard to break fifteen years of habit when we’re goofing around.”

“I know, I know.”

“Go ahead and kick off,” Erin calls to Louis. “Sorry guys, but no time for chit chat, the lights go off in fifteen.”

“Oh, shit,” Mia says, glancing at her watch.

Amir catches Sunday’s eye and mouths _thank God._ She laughs.

Louis feints like he’s going to kick, then passes to Liam on his right; Liam is unprepared, and the ball goes by him, off the field completely. Ariana jogs after it.

“Payno,” Louis says, “we’re playing football, here, I dunno if you were aware?”

“You need to call your plays, Tommo.”

“I caught your eye! What were you doing over there, huh?” Louis makes a subtle jerking off gesture, and Liam slaps his hand down. Then they grin at each other all flirty. Ew.

“Amir,” Mia yells at him. “You’re playing wing, so stop creeping into the middle.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing!” he yells back. “I’m tired and I’m full of cake!”

“I’m gonna bench you and call your boyfriend to come play instead!”

“Good luck getting him here in ten minutes!”

“Hey,” Max interrupts sternly. “You guys. This is supposed to be _fun_.”

Liam reaches over and fondly tousles his hair.

Ariana jogs back over with the ball and throws it in. Sunday gets a foot on it and blasts it into outer space, sending it so far that it bounces into the regulation goal way on the other side of the field.

Ariana heaves a huge sigh and starts running after it again. Everyone turns to stare at Sunday.

“Holy shit,” Erin says. “You just booted a goal from behind the half.”

Sunday shrugs sheepishly. “It was an accident.”

“Still!”

“She has those crazy leg muscles from horses,” Mia says.

“She’s a ringer,” Erin says in admiration. “Hey, everyone start passing to Sunday.”

“Man on Sunday,” Louis says. “Max, stay on your sister. Trip her if you have to.”

“Hey,” Mia says. “No fouls.”

Louis flaps a hand at her, then catches Max’s eye again and winks at him.

“‘Scuse me,” Sunday says politely, “can I ask that nobody trip me, actually? It’s just I have a show in a couple days.”

Louis claps his hands together. “Right, Max, don’t trip her, run around her in circles instead.”

“Got it,” Max says, grinning.

“I don’t like this side of you, Louis,” Sunday says.

“Oh, no one does,” Louis says. “Except maybe your father.”

“Oh yeah, I love when you’re a bloodthirsty psycho,” Liam says sarcastically.

“You do, though!”

Ariana returns with the ball, doing some fancy footwork to knock it over to Kat.

“What do we think,” Kat says, doing a couple of kickups. “Corner?”

“Looks like a corner,” Louis says.

The floodlights blink overhead three times, giving a kind of strobe effect like they’re in a nightclub. Ariana raises three fingers and shouts out, “That's the three minute warning.”

“Alright, next goal wins,” Mia says. “Corner! Line up, guys, find a man.”

Amir rolls his eyes and heads over to the goal, listlessly blocking Max, who keeps darting back in front of him. He looks over at Sunday, and she raises an eyebrow.

“You regret adopting the three of us yet?” he says to her.

Sunday smiles. “Nah. Nobody else I’d rather adopt.”

“So you’re finally admitting to having terrible taste in everything? Interesting.”

Sunday barks out a laugh. “Watch it, I’ll kick you.”

 

SANTA BARBARA, SEPTEMBER 20, 2036

Zayn leaves rehab on a beautiful Saturday.

He sits in the courtyard while he waits for Harry, nursing a cigarette (his last one for a while, he’s promised himself) and scrolling through his phone. He’s been texting a ton of his old friends while he was in here, people he hasn’t talked to in a year, or five, or ten. He’s surprised how many people he thought were angry at him for falling out of touch have actually just been waiting for him to reach out, wanting to collab or chat or see his face.

He wants to collab, too — in fact he’s on doctor’s orders to. He only had one therapist for this whole stint in rehab, Gil, and the guy is probably the best one he’s ever had, if a little unorthodox. He didn’t talk down to Zayn, or try to diagnose him with borderline, or use those really academic phrases that obscure what he’s actually saying. He just gave it to him straight.

“Here’s the thing you have to remember,” Gil told him during one of their first sessions, “this sponsor’s life is so empty compared to yours. You said he’s divorced, estranged from his kids? Never that successful?”

“I mean, he was a big record exec in the nineties,” Zayn said. That’s how he’d met Rob to begin with, was his friend at London’s RCA offices telling him about an AA meeting group specifically for people in the industry.

“But he’s nothing now,” Gil said. “He lost it all because he let his addiction eat his life. And look at you in comparison. Look at all you have.”

Zayn rubbed at his beard. “My other therapists would discourage me from this kinda thinking,” he said with a chuckle. “That kind of arrogant dickhead thinking.”

Gil smiled. “I’m giving you permission to be an arrogant dickhead about the people who actually deserve it,” he said. “I think that’s an impulse you shouldn’t try to crush down. That just makes you misdirect it onto your loved ones, and yourself.”

“Alright. Alright, I’m not against that.”

“There you go. Pity him, you know? Have more contempt for Rob than you have for yourself. ‘Cause I think some of the reason you’re so angry is ‘cause you secretly think you deserve to be betrayed like this. You’d be surprised how much more angry we can be at ourselves than at other people.”

Zayn shrugged.

“You disagree?”

“Guess I don’t.”

“Take all that anger you turn inward and use it, instead of being passive-aggressive and self-injurious,” Gil said. “You make music, art, that’s good. You’ve got a loving husband to vent to, that’s good. But you know you’re a touchy guy, Zayn. You take shit personally. You need a lot of outlets.”

“You’re saying be like Harry, stuff my feelings away in my work?”

“Not necessarily. Get revenge on Rob, but do it healthy. What’s the best revenge for somebody who endangers the twelve-step by violating your anonymity? Pour some money and time into making sure what happened to you doesn’t happen to somebody else. He hurt your kids by making them live out their fears in public? Do something healing with them, as a family. Love them so hard that there isn’t any room for outside bullshit to seep in. You’re not him, so rise above his shit.”

Zayn just nodded and nodded. He thinks about that now, as he sits waiting for his family — how long he waited for Harry, how much he loves his kids. He doesn’t want to lose any more of his precious time with them to depression or wounded pride. He doesn’t care how many different meds he has to try or if he has to practice mindfulness every single miserable second of the fucking day. Is it fair that he’s just anxious and sad like this by default, that he can’t risk drinking the way everyone else can? That he has to work so much harder? That touring is a nervy slog for him when it’s a life-affirming joy for seemingly everyone else, including his husband? No, but plenty of things in life aren’t fair.

“I suspect part of you wanted out of the tour,” Gil told him matter-of-factly, when he said he still wasn’t entirely sure why he drank.

“No,” Zayn said. “It wasn’t that.”

“You don’t think so?”

Zayn shrugged and mumbled, “I wanted to tour.”

“Did you, though? Didn’t you say you had just come off a huge fight with your husband at the time you agreed to it?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Is it possible that to some extent, you let yourself get guilted and bullied into participating, and subconsciously wanted to punish your bandmates for that?”

Zayn didn’t have anything to say to that, because he unfortunately had a point.

Gil had nothing but harsh words about a lot of his prior treatment, calling him ‘overmedicated and overpathologized’ by ‘L.A. quacks’. He said he thinks Zayn has been abusing Xanax — was always abusing Xanax, consistently since Amir was born — and he shouldn’t take it ever again. He took Zayn off all his antidepressants and replaced them with ketamine treatments, then told him to just get some sleep and go hang out on the beach as much as he could. He did, heading down to the coast every single day, mostly just reading and smoking weed, but sometimes taking a few steps into the ocean. The fog that’s been plaguing him since April had slowly started to lift.

He kept a journal again, as he had last time. He’s thinking about expanding his rehab writings into a memoir; something about Harry reading Louis’ journal triggered that thought in his head. The reminder that your most vulnerable words can help somebody else, once you’ve purged them from yourself. And didn’t Mia say something like that to him once, when she was little? That he should write his memoirs so they could help someone else?

Maybe it’s finally time. Maybe he’s lived enough life, by now.

Zayn sees Harry and the girls coming toward like a dream, walking slowly in the haze of the noon sun. The girls break into a run, and Zayn stands up from the ledge of the koi pond he’s sitting on.

They catch him around the waist, almost knocking him off his feet, and he ducks down to embrace them. Toni’s got pigtails done up with hair ties that have pink bobbles on them — Harry seems to think the bobbles are adorable, because he keeps buying them from antique Etsy shops. When he’s home, he always takes great care with Toni’s hair, doing it in almost a different style every single day and spending hours watching YouTube tutorials.

Marlena is wearing a silk headband in the same shade of dusty pink as the bobbles, as if to subtly match her sister. Oh Harry. Zayn gets sad, imagining him laying out clothes for their daughters this morning, imagining the intense care he probably took in doing so. Anything to repress his worries about Zayn.

Sometimes Zayn thinks Harry should go back to therapy, too, but he doesn’t quite know how to suggest that. Under Harry’s serene, dry exterior is an untapped well of rage and pain that he doesn’t really ever express. Not even through his solo music, which is made up of such twisting metaphors that Zayn can’t even make heads or tails of it half the time.

Sometimes he sees it in Harry’s acting, though. While he was in rehab he rewatched _Sous La Seine,_ and was newly struck by the anger Harry brought to playing the paranoid dad of a dead son. He was incandescent — lighting up the screen with his fury, screaming, spitting. It’s a side of him Zayn almost never sees in his daily life. And he wouldn’t have reason to think this was anything other than talented acting, except he suspects that part of Harry was the same one that backhanded Louis.

Zayn must be staring at Harry as he contemplates this, because Harry seems to mistake his gaze for a much less complicated ‘I missed you’ look, and flashes him a dimpled grin. Zayn smiles back at him.

“Dad, are you gonna be home for real now?” Toni says. “Like, seriously, home for good?”

Marlena looks from her to Zayn, gnawing at her lip in seeming worry. Harry lingers back, watching.

“For good,” Zayn tells them. “No more tours, no more time away.”

“Do you feel okay?” Marlena says.

“I feel great, sweets.”

Harry beckons the girls. “Come on. We’ve got plans with your uncles, we don’t want to be late.”

“Ah, right,” Zayn says, straightening up. “The Poseidon adventure.”

Harry has a good chuckle at this. The girls dart ahead toward the car park, and he lingers back with Zayn, sliding an arm around his waist.

“You look good,” he says to him. “Got your color back… put on some weight?”

“Hey, only like half a stone,” Zayn says defensively.

“That’s good, though. You needed it.”

Marlena and Toni stop at one of the other koi ponds, leaning over the edge to peer in.

“Girls, come on,” Zayn calls. “Quit dawdling.”

“These fish are so big,” Marlena says. “I didn’t know they made fish that big.”

“What d’you think a shark is, love?” Harry asks her.

Marlena turns and gives him one of her puppy-eyed looks. “Um… I dunno.”

“She meant she didn’t know they made goldfish-type fish this big,” explains Toni, who’s used to being a Marlena-to-Earth translator.

“Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

Looking amused, Harry goes over and kneels next to them, peering into the water. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?” he says. “What d’you think, should we get some for the backyard?”

“Yeah,” Marlena says immediately. “Let’s get five.”

“Five,” Harry says, giving a solid nod of approval. “Let’s do it.”

Zayn smiles at this. “I’m worried Kip might try and eat them,” he says. Being a terrier, Kip tries to eat most everything.

“We’ll explain to him that they’re his friends,” Toni says, with all the confidence in the world. “He’ll understand.”

“Fish are friends, not food,” Marlena adds.

“Exactly.”

 

MARINA DEL REY, SEPTEMBER 21, 2036

The four kids quickly get bored of the adults talking and run off to play hide and seek on the yacht. The boys are a little old for it now, although Patrick still likes to amuse himself by saying “Let’s play hide and go peek,” then peeking when he’s the seeker, and when anyone calls him out for cheating, saying, “Uh, but you agreed to play hide and go _peek_?” Marlena hasn’t fallen for that one in a while, but he still tries it.

Liam serves them a cheese board in the parlor. Harry comments on how nicely arranged it is, and Louis is quick to say, “Yeah, ‘e’s ‘ad enough fucking practice putting these together, ‘cos we’ve been living on a _boat_ and eating nothing you actually have to cook.”

Liam shakes his head. “Thanks, Harry,” he says, ignoring his husband as he takes a seat next to him on the couch.

“Thought you two were moving into your new place soon,” Zayn says. Louis texted him last week that they’d just closed escrow on a ranch in Sacramento.

“We wanted to do a proactive fumigation, ‘cos the house is from the seventies and some of the neighbors’ve had termites,” Liam explains. “So we’re here a few more days, and Tommo’s about to murder me. Even though I told him he’s perfectly allowed to go to a hotel.”

“I don’t want to go to a hotel,” Louis says. “Why do I have to go be lonely in a hotel? No.”

“Well, there you are, then!”

“So the boys don’t have school?” Harry says.

“Nah, their new one doesn’t start for a bit,” Louis says. “It’s year-round, I think their first day’s the twenty-fifth. So we’re taking it right up to the wire.”

Zayn picks some cured salami and cheese off the plate, adding it to a cracker along with a gherkin.

“I can’t believe you’ll be five hours away, now,” Harry says.

“Not five,” Liam says. “They’ve got that maglev train now. More like ninety minutes.”

“Still, you’ve been right down the road for so long.”

Louis shrugs. “Older kids are grown,” he says. “Flown the nest. Honestly, we’d go straight back to England, if we didn’t think we’d miss them too much. Hard enough with Amir on a different coast and Sunday always away.”

“Get them all to move to England,” Harry suggests.

“Yeah, good luck,” Louis says. “Amir’s decided England’s ‘over’.”

“Over?” Zayn repeats. “The fuck does that mean?”

Louis spreads his hands like, who knows.

“I don’t think that’s him being silly,” Harry says. “It’s just ‘cos he found out the tabloids are so nasty to us there, so he’s rejecting the entire country in protest.”

“He tell you that?” Louis says.

Harry shakes his head. “I inferred.”

“Not to change the subject, but did you two see the news this morning?” Liam says. “The county’s like, admitting fault that they let the fire get as bad as it did and didn’t warn us to evacuate sooner.”

“Good,” Zayn mutters. “That was fucking ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I’m proper angry,” Louis says. “I mean, David was getting his information straight from a connect in the fire department, which is why I trusted what he was telling me. But it was all bullshit they fed us so they wouldn’t have a panic on their hands. And then they throw these roadblocks up, that’s like locking people in a burning building. More than a hundred people dead, and maybe it could’ve been avoided.”

Zayn doesn’t like to dwell on this. It’s too upsetting.

“Is anyone suing?” Harry says, sipping his mineral water.

“You’re a bit one-note lately, yeah?” Liam says to him, and Harry chuckles good-naturedly.

“I think there’s a class-action,” Louis says. “I mean, we wouldn’t join on, I don’t want any money. We’ve gotten our insurance claims back for the house and the art and the cars…”

“We lost five cars, all in all,” Liam says glumly.

Louis nabs a cracker for himself, then settles back against the couch and glances between Harry and Zayn with that probing gaze of his. “So, I don’t wanna bring up the elephant in the room if you two don’t want to,” he says.

Harry clasps his hands together. “And yet you just have.”

Louis laughs. “Alright, I don’t want to _discuss_ it if you two don’t want to, is what I meant.”

Zayn shrugs. “I’m doing well,” he says. “It was just, y’know… a break. Chance to get away from all that shit in the press, make sure I didn’t, y’know. Let the one slip turn into more than it was.”

He isn’t quite sure they’d understand if he tried to explain — how drinking is a self-fulfilling prophecy for him, how it’s a way to relieve himself from the pain of other people’s low expectations by living down to them. He thinks Louis might; he suspects Louis has done this too, in his own way. That he punished himself for being the most forgotten member of the band by trying to make himself small and forgettable whenever he could.

They all do it, really. Everyone had written these scripts for them from very early on. It’s just Zayn who has fought against his so violently that he hurt himself and those around him in doing so.

“You look good,” Liam tells him. “You get some sun?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “Sun, caught up on my reading, talked about stuff… got a few projects sort of developing now, too.”

Harry clears his throat. “Actually, I’ve decided I’m going to take a step back next year,” he says. “Just write, and spend time at home with the girls. Take them to school and things like that. Just be around a lot.”

“Good,” Liam says vehemently. “You need a break.”

“The tour was meant to be a break,” Harry says, amused. “Oh well.”

It’s not like it had been torment or anything, but it wasn’t the fun, lighthearted return to form they were all expecting. Zayn weathered two months of rabid speculation about his health and sobriety, his marriage to Harry was put under a microscope with their imminent divorce predicted almost hourly, and Louis and Harry couldn’t even ask the other to pass the salt in public without being frantically papped for any signs of animosity. And the fans were still chasing them down like always, begging for scraps of intimacy and for answers they didn’t have.

Liam leaned into the publicity hard, trying to force it to work for them instead of against. He asked Zayn out to lunch when they were in Frankfurt, then sat them conspicuously by a window and smiled like an insane man for the entire meal. Once the inevitable pap pictures leaked, Zayn asked him, “You plan this, mate?” and Liam cheerfully replied, “But now the headlines are all about how you and I are cool with each other!”

And then when his tenth wedding anniversary with Louis rolled around, that basically became the theme of that evening’s concert. Zayn is surprised Liam didn’t come out in a tux. He announced it at the very beginning, then got on mic later to give a little speech about how much he loves Louis, who looked simultaneously very pleased and like he wanted to drop dead from embarrassment.

“Well, cheers,” Liam says, raising his glass. Zayn notes with appreciation that they’re all drinking mineral water instead of beer. “To sunshine. And none of that other shit.”

“Cheers,” they all repeat, toasting him.

This moment of happy togetherness lasts for about two seconds before Louis loudly sneezes.

“You sick?” Harry says.

“I might be,” Louis says. “Feeling crappy. ‘Course that might be because I’ve been living on a fuckin’ boat —“

“Will you give it a rest?” Liam exclaims, gently slamming his water onto the table. “We’ll be out of here by the end of the week!”

Louis glances at him. “Am I really being that annoying about it?”

“A bit,” Liam says.

“Alright, sorry.”

Liam pats him forgivingly on the thigh.

“You should seriously try this turmeric raspberry leaf tea I’ve been drinking,” Harry says. “I haven’t gotten sick once all year.”

Louis sneezes again, then sniffs. “Turmeric? Is that that orange shit? The curry shit?”

“Yeah, it’s the _curry shit_ ,” Zayn says, amused.

“It’s Ayurvedic,” Harry says.

“Oh, mate, you know I don’t go in for all that,” Louis says. “Those alternative supplements and things.”

“It works for me _,_ ” Harry says. “I can make you a cup just to try. You’ve got an electric kettle, yeah?”

Louis squints at him. “You carry it on you?”

“I keep a bag in the car, I can go grab it.”

“I’m good.”

“Let him make you some tea, Lou,” Zayn says.

Louis lets out a half-sigh, half-laugh. “Can I just not believe in something?”

“Even if you don’t believe me, it’s still a cup of tea,” Harry says. “Since when do you refuse tea? Just because it’s me asking you to drink it?”

“No, my God, Harold. Fine, make me the curry tea.”

Harry gets to his feet; at the same time, they hear from down the hall the noise of something shattering on the floor, and the unmistakable sound of an eleven-year-old boy going, “Oops.”

“BOYS,” Louis yells, and Liam collapses back onto the couch, giving Zayn a commiserating look. Zayn just laughs.

 

*

 

The girls have a playdate to run off to when they get back, and they’re reluctant to leave Zayn, but he assures them that he’ll be here when they get back to hang out with them. This is partially because he doesn’t want his return to disrupt their routine with his return, but mostly because he hasn’t fucked Harry in almost a month, and he’s dying to.

As soon as they’re gone Zayn’s on him, snogging him and walking him backward into the sitting room, yanking his t-shirt up out of his jeans so he can unbutton them and pull them down.

“Wait,” Harry pants, “you don’t want to go to bed?”

“Shut up or I’ll fuck you right here on the floor.”

Harry grins at him in delight. Zayn steers him over to the couch.

He does him missionary with their clothes still half-on. Harry seems to love it, especially the spontaneity — always hard to come by when you’ve got young kids. He fists his hands in Zayn’s hair and moans loud, louder than normal. He’s trembly and comes fast, like he missed this something awful. Comes six minutes before Zayn even does and lies there beautifully contented with his own semen running down his thighs, still grunting and moaning as Zayn moves in and out of him, hard and fast.

For as long as he humanly can, Zayn goes at him like a madman. He wants Harry to know that nothing has changed, that he’s here to carry his weight in the family and in their marriage. He’s still strong and virile and prideful. Life hasn’t beaten that out of him yet. He’s going to take all that he values about himself to his grave, if he can help it.

Harry gazes up at him with half-lidded green eyes, his lush lips parted, and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. For a moment he remembers the teenager he once was, how he fucked Harry like this in a dark hotel room, how he gripped his curls in his fists and felt that soft mouth kiss his neck.

There’s just something unending between the two of them. A love so long and intense that it rides the razor’s edge of dislike, sometimes. They can make each other so angry, but it’s only because they know they’ll never get untangled. And sometimes that’s strangely freeing. Zayn spent his entire marriage to Louis knowing that Louis wasn’t in it for the right reasons, that he was a flight risk. That wore him down, made him so tense and angry. In the end, Zayn blew things up himself — he just got so tired of waiting around for the executioner to arrive. Fuck it, fuck you, fuck this. He’s not proud of it, but that’s what it was.

Harry, though — Harry could divorce him and move to Zimbabwe, and Zayn would be devastated, but he would never believe for a second that that was the end of them. He would wait for a call from Harry for as many years as it took. And when it came, he’d pick up, hear that low, silky voice say _Hullo_ on the other end, and he’d just say, “Welcome back.” He knows the reverse is equally as true.

Zayn thinks their love is mythical. It’s an ancient sculpture in a museum: his fingers forever digging into Harry’s milky marble thighs. They’ll always be as beautiful as they were when they were teenagers, always orbiting each other.

 

MANHATTAN, SEPTEMBER 27,  2036

Amir’s jazz quartet books the Blue Note on a Friday night after he’s been back at school for a month; their trumpet player and bandleader, Eric, proceeds to talk their fucking ears off in the band’s group chat in the days leading up to the gig, tweaking their set list endlessly. Amir already has a fifteen-page essay due for Jazz Seminar 321, so he’s buried in books all week and doesn’t even respond except to say, “Sounds good!” to everything everyone says so he seems like he’s participating.

The rest of the band is in their forties, and although he appreciates that they’ve taken him under their wings and had agreed to play with a temp keyboardist the last few months instead of replacing him entirely, he’d love for them to ever remember that he’s a busy student and not a session musician who makes a living off working one day a week.

It’s a good set, though. He’s missed playing in front of people. And they do a few old standards, so he gets to sing. Amir’s always more anxious about singing live than playing live, because it’s easier for the audience to pick out a mistake, but he’s not that worried tonight. Almost dying has chilled him out a little bit.

They’re in the middle of their arrangement of _Someone To Watch Over Me_ when Amir looks up from his piano, out into the audience, and sees Evan.

It’s a full house, so thinks he’s seeing things for a second, but no, he’s there, dressed down in jeans and a flannel. Amir’s heart leaps in his chest. He smiles up at Amir, and Amir tries to restrain himself, but he ends up getting a stupid shit-eating grin on his face while he sings.

 

*

 

The show ends at midnight, and their audience wanders off to the bar to get one last cocktail before they head down to the subway. Evan comes up on stage while they’re breaking down and offers to help.

Amir already has his keyboard folded up, but he turns to their drummer. “You need help, Van?”

Van is already red-faced and sweaty from wrestling with his set. “Always,” he grunts.

Evan goes over to him and starts sort of tentatively pitching in. He’s not drums-familiar, though he did noodle around on the guitar a little in high school. Over the summer, Amir asked Jason if he’d be down for the three of them doing a jam session, and Jason told him, “My music is mostly me modulating field recordings on stage, so I dunno if I could really _jam…_ ”

In his peripheral vision, Amir sees two people approaching the stage. He turns. It’s a guy and a girl — his age or a little older, but he doesn’t recognize them. They’re dressed like they probably go to NYU.

“Hi there,” the girl says to no one in particular, smiling.

Eric straightens up, clapping his hands together. “Hi! You guys want to buy a CD?”

“Actually, we wanted to say hi to the pianist,” she says.

Amir turns and looks; so does Evan.

“Amir,” Eric teases, “you have groupies again.”

“Stop with that,” Amir says to him. His dads had always hammered into him that _groupie_ might as well be a slur. “Hey. What’s up?”

The girl nudges her counterpart, who just shrugs at her. She sighs heavily and says, “Here,” handing Amir a piece of paper.

He leans forward and takes it. It’s a phone number.

“You guys share a number?” Amir says, glancing up at them.

She laughs. “No, it’s Sean’s,” she says, nudging him again. “He’s too awkward to do it himself.”

“Oh my God,” Sean mutters, looking like he wants to die. He’s cute, in a shaggy Brooklyn way.

“Hey, so, I’m flattered,” Amir says, “but I have a boyfriend. He’s over there.”

He points to Evan and then turns to him; Evan puts a cymbal down and gives a friendly wave.

“I’ll take the number,” Van says with a wink.

“Van, don’t be disgusting,” Amir says. “Did you guys enjoy the show?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Sean says, seeming to have found his voice now that he’s been rejected. “Good set.”

“Thanks,” Amir says with a flirty smile, just as a parting gift.

“Amir,” Eric stage-whispers. “Push the CDs.”

Amir rolls his eyes. “Okay, so he doesn’t get that no one buys CDs, but we’re on Spotify,” he says to the NYU kids. “If you’re at all interested… and we sell merch on our site.”

The girl laughs. “We’ll check it out.”

Once the two of them have said bye and headed off, Amir sashays back to Evan and kisses him on the neck. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Evan says, patting him on the lower back.

They roll their packed-up stuff out of the club, down the tiny staircase (Kurt almost crushes Amir with his bass by accident) and onto the curb to start loading up Eric’s creepy white van.

“Alright, guys,” Eric says, slamming the back doors and stepping back up onto the curb. He digs into his jeans pocket and pulls out a few envelopes. “Checks,” he says, distributing them.

“Get Venmo already,” Amir says.

“Van doesn’t have a phone,” A.J. reminds him, shifting his trumpet case to his other hand so he can grab his check.

“That’s how the debt man gets you,” Van says.

Amir pockets the check without looking at it. It’s never more than a few hundred dollars; sometimes he even forgets to cash them. He’s terrible about money like that, even worse than Mia is.

It’s more the experience he values, anyway — raising his profile as a musician before he starts trying to get signed to a label. Louis was the one who told him to do that. He said, “Don’t sign a contract when you’re nineteen, they’ll give you a shit deal and steal anything you write for themselves. Hold out for the best offer you can get, and wait as long as you can.”

Amir supposes he knows what he’s talking about — he’s signed enough deals in his life, plus he manages artists, and he’s been working in A&R again the last few years. People have always told him his dad’s savvy about talent and business, and for a long time he thought they were just ass-kissers, but the older he gets the more he realizes what an asset Louis is.

“Good show tonight, everybody,” Van says.

“Good show,” the others chorus.

“G’night, guys,” Amir says, taking Evan by the hand and leading him away down the sidewalk, into the lush jungle of New York City.

“Where are we going?” Evan says.

“Food,” Amir says.

“At midnight?”

“I forgot to eat today. I won’t be up ‘til noon tomorrow anyway. I know this fancy place with a kitchen that’s open late, it’s where Wall Street guys go after work...” Amir stops dead in his tracks mid-sentence and turns around to Evan, bumping into him.

Evan grins down at him. “Hi?”

“Hey. So, what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t gonna visit ‘til October.”

“Well,” Evan says, “I thought it might be nice to pay my grandma a visit…”

“Uh-huh.”

Evan reaches up and smooths his hands over Amir’s hair, tousling it. He’s always fucking up his hair. “You told me you wanted me to see you play, so here I am.”

“How long you here?”

Evan shrugs. “However long I want to be.”

“I like that.”

“Me too.”

 

*

 

Amir could wander dizzily through Manhattan with Evan all night, holding hands and chuckling to each other about odd things they see (an abandoned alley mattress with DOUG spray-painted on it, a rat eating an ice-cream cone, a couple screaming at each other about whose baths are responsible for their astronomical water bill) but he really is starving. So he drags him to _La Ragazza_ and asks the host for his regular table.

“Right away, Mr. Tomlinson,” the host says primly.

“Fancy-ass,” Evan whispers to Amir, who laughs and squeezes his hand.

Amir’s table is upstairs by the window, so he can watch traffic go by on rainy days and imagine that he’s a future version of himself who’s just been nominated for a Grammy and is worried that mainstream approval will ruin his music. The host leads them there and leaves them with their menus, at which point Evan says, “So, wait, did you get rid of Zayn’s last name?”

“No,” Amir says. “I just stopped using it when I came back in September, so that’s how they know me here...” He shrugs. “People were asking me way too many questions about him when he was in rehab.”

“Weird,” Evan says.

“Weird that they’d ask?”

“Weird for you to drop his name.”

“Why?”

“Just ‘cos you always like, worshiped him.”

“It’s not like I got it legally changed,” Amir says, nettled.

Evan shrugs.

“Anyway, shit’s not the same between me and him as it was in like, high school, and you know that.”

“I know,” Evan says.

“He probably wouldn’t give a shit,” Amir says, feeling his wounded pride and little-boy hurt as a pinch in his chest. “He’s barely even talked to me about rehab, or anything. It’s Mia they always talk to about anything serious.”

“Always?” Evan says. “That sucks for her.”

Amir hadn’t thought about it that way; he’s usually too busy being annoyed that no one thinks he’s as mature or selfless as his sister. “I guess,” he says. “She likes it, though, even when she bitches about it.”

He thinks Zayn misses him being an uncomplicated little boy. He misses it, too. He misses the easy relationship they used to have, when he was a kid and his dad used to take him on hikes or for long drives. He remembers always staring up at Zayn, thinking he was so fascinating, a wise and self-contained tangle of grown-up mysteries that Amir would someday unravel and be a part of.

But like most promises of adult life, this was bullshit. Zayn is just human. There’s nothing mysterious about him.

“Why are you defending my dad, anyway?” Amir says. “He literally forgot your name.”

“Ahh, he was just fucking with me… it was a power move.”

“How can you tell?”

Evan shrugs. “My dad and his friends do shit like that all the time. He was just reminding me to be on my toes. Message received. Nothing personal.”

“You’re my boyfriend, he shouldn’t be fucking with you.”

“He was just being protective,” Evan says. “I don’t mind, seriously. I’m sure he thinks us breaking up was my fault.”

Amir shrugs. “I did kind of tell everyone it was.”

Evan laughs. “So there you go.”

“He just thinks he knows better than me about everything in my life,” Amir says. “He thinks I’m just him as a do-over, I swear to God, like I’m not my own person.”

“That’s what dads and sons are like, though,” Evan says. “My dad’s like that, but about a thousand times worse, ‘cos at least you know your dad loves you no matter what you do.”

“Evan… come on… your dad loves you.”

His eyes cut down to his water glass. “I dunno.”

“He does.”

“You’re just lucky you have the parents you do,” Evan says, sounding unusually serious. Amir doesn’t know how to respond.

A waiter comes over to them, then. His name is Tom; he’s served Amir before. He’s smiling like he remembers that Amir gives big tips. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“I think it’s good morning,” Amir drawls.

A flicker of amusement crosses Tom’s face. “Can I get you anything?”

“You’re hungry, right?” Amir says to Evan. “You said you flew in this afternoon? Did you have any plane scones?”

Evan laughs. “No, I just had chips when I dropped my stuff at my grandma’s.”

“We’ll both have the filet mignon,” Amir says. “And the Achaval-Ferrer malbec.”

“Very good, sir,” Tom says, taking their menus. “ _Deux_ glasses, or are we sharing?”

“ _Deux, oui_.”

Tom winks at him and then waltzes off to the kitchen.

Evan shakes his head, looking amused, then runs his hand through his streaky sunbleached hair. “Everybody always flirts with you.”

“They do not. Please. He just wants a tip.”

“Uh-huh.” Evan stretches his foot out under the table and bumps Amir’s calf. “He didn’t card us, either.”

He smiles. “He wants a tip.”

“Oh, and since when do you order for me?”

“You’ve never been here before,” Amir explains. “You could have ordered wrong.”

“Got an answer for everything?”

“Yeah, always,” Amir says. He closes the wine list and glances up at Evan, who’s still smiling at him, his eyes sparkling warmly. Amir feels prickly heat rise in his face and in his gut.

“So, after this, can we go back to your dorm?” Evan says, like he just read his mind.

Amir nods. “Actually I live off-campus now,” he says. “So I have my own room.”

“Oh, that’s right, that’s right. Your roommates cool?”

“Cool how?”

A sommelier comes to the table and they break off their conversation, his presence causing an awkward silence as he pours the wine. Amir glances around the restaurant — the only other people there are guys in suits, some dining together but several of them alone, looking at their phones or watches as they eat.

“Enjoy,” the sommelier says, passing them their glasses.

Amir immediately takes a giant sip. He finished his paper at 9 a.m. with the help of Adderall, then spent the rest of the day practicing guitar until his callouses bled. Zayn had asked him the other day if he wants to play on his next album, so he’s feeling the pressure to brush up on stuff besides piano.

He isn’t even sure how serious Zayn was about that; he’s in one of those moods lately where he‘s making all sorts of plans and may or may not be serious about any of them. Amir hopes he was, though. He wants to share music with his dads, he always has. Not just be supported by them, but engage with them as a peer. He wants to be taken seriously so badly that it’s like a constant metallic taste in the back of his mouth.

“‘Cool’ like… do you want us to go somewhere else tonight?” Evan says.

Amir knows what he means, but he wants to keep teasing him. “Like where?” He smiles lasciviously, and Evan gets a little pink. “A hotel?”

“Something like that...”

Amir’s tempted by the idea of running off to the Plaza with Evan, getting a bottle of champagne and having really luxurious sex in a nice bed, but he says, “Nah, you can stay with me. It’s fine as long as we don’t get too loud.”

Evan nods and takes a sip of his wine.

“Good?”

He shrugs. “Not bad.”

“Oh, you’re a wine snob now?”

Evan laughs. “I just meant the taste isn’t bad. I don’t know dick about wine.”

“I don’t think the list stops at wine,” Amir says.

Evan gives him the finger. “I know a little more about jazz now,” he says. “I listened to that Brubeck album you sent me.”

“Yeah?” Amir says, tickled. “Did you like it?”

“Kind of. It takes some getting used to.”

“Did you listen to the Kamasi Washington one too?”

“Shit, nah, I forgot.”

“C’mon,” Amir says. “I’m doing my best to culture you.”

“How’d you even get into jazz, originally? It seems like it’s kind of an, uh…”

“Acquired taste?” Amir supplies.

“Yeah, exactly.”

“My piano teacher had me learn a jazz piece when I was like, eleven… I dunno, I liked it right away. I just liked the movement of it. Like I always grew up with music, but never anything like that. Maybe a little from Harry, but not often.”

Evan nods, seeming to understand. “You guys sounded good,” he says. “You looked good up there.”

He smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah… you always look good behind a piano.”

Amir is caught by surprise. It’s always strange when you realize that you’ve been observed with loving eyes by someone, that they’ve noticed and filed away how you look when you’re doing what you love, or just existing in the world.

“Brubeck might’ve been too straight-up for you to start out with,” he says. “You should try listening to Weather Report, they’re more fusion... I think you’d vibe that.”

“Weather Report,” Evan repeats, nodding.

“Yeah, I’ll make you a playlist.”

“Sounds good.”

“Hey, uh...” Amir glances down at his watch and fiddles with it a little. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m visiting.”

“But like, what are you gonna do in New York?”

“Meer,” Evan says, sounding a little annoyed with the badgering. “I don’t know. Can’t I just be with you?”

“I don’t want to distract you,” Amir murmurs, looking up at him again.

Evan’s face softens. “From what?”

“I dunno.”

“I’ll do stuff while I’m here,” Evan says. “I’ll help my grandma look through like, I dunno, old furniture and stuff and see if there’s shit we can donate to museums. I’ll go hike the Adirondacks. Whatever.”

“What about your other shit?”

“What other shit?”

Amir shrugs. “Your dad, the company.”

“He has my little brother,” Evan says thinly. “I told you, Henry just started at Wharton. My sister’s, like, running a whole department at the Met, she’s engaged to this guy who’s running for Congress. They don’t need me to be anything. They’ve already given up on that.”

He has that middle-child petulance in his voice. Amir recognizes it instantly.

“But is he gonna cut you off if you don’t go to school?” he says. “I thought he threatened that.”

“I think he was bluffing.” Evan shrugs. “He’s just sick of me, I think. I’m his big disappointment.”

“Evan,” Amir says softly.

“No, I am. He thinks he gave me everything and I still can’t get my shit together.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You know what it was like for me,” Evan says, a little hoarse. “Growing up in that house.”

“Course I do.”

“Y’know, if I weren’t his son I could just go and figure myself out for a few years…” He looks away, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth. “I just could be a bartender or something. It wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“You can be a bartender if you want,” Amir says in a sweet voice, and Evan laughs a grateful, breathy laugh.

“He did cancel my credit cards when I told him I wasn’t starting school this fall,” he adds. “Forgot to tell you about that.”

“Oh man, no more Amex Plat?”

“No more Amex Plat.”

“That blows.”

“I’d rather make my own living, anyway. I just have no idea how.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

Evan lets out a long sigh. “I liked this summer so much,” he says. “Just hanging out like we did, I already miss it. I miss high school. I miss working in the woods. All the shit I like has a timer on it, it ends so fast. The good times, they’re always ending.”

He sounds pained. It’s strange to hear Evan talk like this — he’s always been so easygoing, for the most part. Everything seemed to roll off his back. The one thing Amir can remember him being really sad about was getting sent to private school. When Groton kicked him out, he wasn’t worried about his permanent record or his college prospects like Amir would have been — he was thrilled. The night he flew back into LAX, he got his sister to drive him to Amir’s house after their parents went to sleep, and threw rocks at his window until he opened it.

“I’m home!” Evan had yelled up to him, his sunny face shining in the light of one of the security LEDs on the perimeter of the house. “Dude, I’m home for good, I’m free!” Amir ran downstairs and snuck out, and Rachel drove them to Taco Bell while they giggled like idiots in the backseat.

Amir gets up from his seat and comes over to Evan, stroking his hair back and then settling onto his lap, kissing his forehead gently. It feels so good to touch him that Amir briefly wonders if they can eat their whole dinner like this, on one side of the table, him on Evan’s lap.

He smells nice, like he put cologne on for tonight. Amir imagines him getting dressed at his grandma’s manse, tugging his workman’s flannel and jeans out of the backpack he always uses to travel with, then roaming the house looking for cologne.

A guy in a suit a few tables over is eyeing them; Amir glares at him, and he hurriedly glances back down at his BlackBerry.

“We’ll take it one day at a time,” Amir whispers to Evan, who nods and clasps a warm hand to his waist, fisting Amir’s black t-shirt in his hand. “Hey, you can come to class with me tomorrow.. The professor loves me, he wouldn’t care if I brought a guest… it’s on pop music, we’re studying funk right now, you’d like it. You like the Talking Heads, right?”

“Yeah, I like the Talking Heads,” Evan says, smiling.

Amir kisses him again, lips pressed to his brow. Evan tilts his head back, and Amir moves to the bow of his lips, kissing him deeply, tracing his finger down his cheek.

“Tell me more stories about Crazy Rick,” he murmurs. Rick was a guy who Evan met in wilderness therapy, a newly divorced Google executive who had decided the only way he could feel alive anymore was to bathe in a creek and live off of wild mushrooms.

Evan laughs. “Okay, so one time we’re out surveying, and we find this mountain lion that’s tangled in barbed wire. I go to call the park rangers, but Rick is like, no. I can save it with my bare hands and then it’s gonna, you know… _respect_ me.”

“Holy shit. What did he do?”

“So, he puts his gloves on first, of course.”

“Uh-huh…”

 

*

 

Evan must be jet lagged, because he falls asleep about fifteen minutes after he comes. Amir turns the TV off and stares at him, watching his chest rise and fall. He always looks peaceful when he sleeps.

Amir snuggles up to him and tries to drift off, but his eyes keep snapping open in the darkness. Probably he took too much Adderall this morning. Adderall gives him the zoomies. It doesn’t work on Mia the way does on him — their first time taking it was together back in high school, and she said it made her feel like a zombie. He had the opposite reaction; it hit him like a train to the point that he tried to learn the entire Rach 3 in one afternoon. And right now, the later he stays awake, the more zoomy he feels.

The therapist he went to a few years ago had said he has to be careful with stimulants, that he shouldn’t do them recreationally because if he did inherit bipolar from Zayn, it could trigger hypomania. And because he has a “family history” of “stimulant abuse.” Amir didn’t realize that his parents doing a bunch of coke twenty years ago counted as stimulant abuse. Don’t all famous people do coke?

Amir sneaks out of bed and heads down the hall of his creaky old apartment. He shares it with two guys who were his next-door neighbors in the dorms freshman year, Brian and Jordan. He doesn’t overlap with them in their classes much, since they’re both classical musicians — Jordan plays the oboe, and Brian plays the cello — which he‘s glad for. Amir is intensely, neurotically competitive with his jazz cohort. Growing up, he was the standout talent in high school jazz band and the best student his piano teacher had. Everything came so easily to him, life was like a joke. Now he’s just another prodigy in a school full of them. He does his best to kill that thought with morning Adderall and nighttime drinking.

Jordan’s room is across from his. He knocks, thinking it’s not too late for him to still be up. They all keep late hours, even on weekdays.

“Yeah,” Jordan calls.

Amir eases the door open. He’s sitting in bed with his laptop, his face lit only by the blue glow of the screen.

“Doing some stalking?” Amir teases him. He has a thing for a girl who lived on their hall last year, and he keeps looking at her social media without ever working up the nerve to talk to her.

“Shut up,” Jordan says with a smile. “What’s up?”

“You have clippers, right?”

Jordan glances up at him, nodding. “Under the sink in the bathroom.”

“Can I use them?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

The bathroom outlet has that tired, painted-over-a-billion-times quality of all old building fixtures in New York. Amir always notices this when he plugs in his salon-grade hair dryer, and worries that he’s going to blow a fuse on the ancient wiring.

The clippers roar to life when he flicks the switch, though. Amir puts the #4 guard on, since that’s what he asked for at the salon when he last got a buzz back in high school, then hesitates for a moment before raking it back across his scalp.

Black hair drops into the sink. Well, no going back now. He wonders if he should try giving himself a fade, or if Jordan would maybe be willing to do one for him.

Amir keeps going. More hair drops into the sink, dark and shiny. He works in a trance, barely registering what he’s doing, and then he glances up and he’s done. He runs the clippers over the few spots he missed, yanks the plug out of the wall and gathers up the hair in the sink. “Bye,” he says to it as he drops it into the trash, then blows it a kiss.

He takes a moment to study himself in the mirror. It’s a little disorienting. He looks so much like Zayn when he has a buzzcut.

Amir ducks his head, sticking his skull under the faucet to run cool water over himself, dislodging any of the tickly, itchy little hairs left behind. Then he shuts the light and goes back into his bedroom. He snuggles back up against Evan, who stirs.

“Hey,” Amir whispers. “Feel my head.”

Evan grumbles in his sleep, but reaches up to stroke his hair. His eyes jump open in the dark. “Wait, what?”

“You don’t like it?”

“No… just… what?”

“I just did it in the bathroom.”

Evan blinks sleepily. Amir claps on the bedside lamp, and he groans. “It’s two in the morning!”

“Just tell me it looks good!”

“Of course… you always look good.”

“Really?” Amir says, flopping down on the pillows next to him. “Would I look good if I got in a car accident and my face got destroyed? Or like, a chimpanzee ripped it off?”

“No, you’d look pretty bad,” Evan says, opening one eye to squint at him with. “But I’d still like you.”

“Even if I had to go on lithium and I gained a hundred pounds?”

“Even then. What’s lithium?”

“It’s for bipolar.”

“Do you _have_ bipolar?”

“I dunno. I could.”

“Well, does your dad take lithium?”

“No, it’s for a different kind of bipolar.”

“Then what the fuck are you even talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Amir admits.

“You need to relax,” Evan murmurs. “Just go to sleep. C’mere.”

Amir lets Evan pull him back into bed. He claps the light back off and pulls the comforter over them, then settles into Evan’s comforting arms.

“Even if I had no arms and no legs and no face?” he mumbles.

“Meer. Go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

Evan shifts against him, then rubs his buzzed head like he’s a cat. Amir likes that. He’s overcome with a sudden and powerful lurch of love for him.

“Hey,” Amir mumbles. “Don’t ever run away to the woods again.”

Evan lets out a small, soft little laugh. “I won’t.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

Amir intertwines their hands and brings Evan’s wrist to his mouth, kissing him right where his pulse flutters.

 

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES, NOVEMBER 21, 2036

Mia wakes up at the crack of dawn so she can go take over an entire table in the library, which has been crammed all week with people studying for finals. She’d been getting up that early for all of Ramadan, so it isn’t that hard, although as she’s walking into the building she catches a glimpse of her reflection and realizes she has a Post-it note in her hair.

She’s sitting there staring at her business calculus textbook without comprehending anything in it when someone starts hovering over the seat across from her.

“Mind if I sit?” a female voice says.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mia mutters without looking up, reaching out to corral back her mess of papers and folders. “Yeah, go ahead.”

“No problem,” the voice says. “There’s just like, no other tables free…”

“Yeah, I had to get here super early to grab one...” Mia looks up, then, and sees a keenly beautiful girl, with sleek dark hair down to her elbows and almond-shaped amber eyes. “I, uh,” she stutters. “Yeah.”

The girl smiles. “Eid Mubarak,” she says, taking a seat across from Mia.

Mia stares at her. “How did you…?”

The girl laughs. “You’re in my post-9/11 Muslim identity class.”

“Oh...” Mia’s kind of disappointed; she thought maybe she had been giving off a vibe.

The girl points to the Ziploc on the table. “Laddu?”

There’s a faint lilt to her voice, sort of like an English accent but not quite. Mia glances down at the crinkled bag of laddu next to her elbow. “Oh, yeah. My grandma sends me these every year.”

“Now I’m jealous,” she says. “My grandma just sent me perfume. I’m Aya, by the way.”

“Mia.” She extends her hand. “Nice to meet you. Eid Mubarak.”

Aya shakes it, then reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I actually came over ‘cos I recognized you from class,” she says. “You talk a lot.”

“Oh,” Mia says, a little abashed. “I, uh. Yeah.”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. You’re just a familiar face.”

“Ha, that’s kind of embarrassing, though. It’s a huge lecture.”

Aya flashes her another smile; her teeth are gleaming white. Mia suddenly wishes she’d at least put a little fucking mascara on before she came down here. “No. Not embarrassing.”

“Sorry I didn’t recognize you back,” she offers.

“I didn’t expect you to. I never speak up.”

“Shy?”

“No,” Aya says. “Not shy. I just tend to, um… how to phrase it… think a lot before I speak? By the time I work out what I want to say, we’ve moved on.”

“Oh, got you… I’m kind of jealous. I just blurt stuff out.”

“I know,” Aya says. ”I think it’s charming.”

Mia’s heart skips a beat, and her cheeks flush with heat. “You should talk, though,” she says. “I’d rather hear from you than that guy with all the conspiracy theories.”

Aya rolls her eyes in recognition, nodding. “I find a lot of what you say pretty relatable, actually,” she says. “I have a white mom.”

“Oh, word,” Mia says, then kicks herself for not sounding more intelligent. “What about your dad?”

“My other mom’s Iranian.”

“Cool,” Mia says lamely, and Aya smiles again. She seems to be warm toward Mia despite her inability to string a full sentence together. “Hey,” she adds, on a sudden impulse. “Are you doing anything tonight? Any Eid stuff?”

“Actually, I’m not,” Aya says. “My family all live in D.C.”

“Do you wanna come with me to a party my dad’s having?”

“Sure, I’d love to.”

“Cool.”

They’re quiet for a moment.

“Just to be clear,” Mia says, “I meant as a date-type thing, but if you just want to go as friends, that’s totally cool too.”

Aya laughs; it’s a lovely sound. Mia finds herself desperate to keep making her laugh, over and over. “You are straightforward, aren’t you?”

“Is that bad?”

“No. I’d love to go as a date-type thing.”

Mia grins, flushing again. “Good.”

Aya sets a razor-thin MacBook on the table and starts tapping away at the keyboard.

Mia sits there watching her, not wanting the conversation to end. “So, uh… You’re from D.C.?”

She keeps typing. “Not really. I didn’t grow up there.”

“Oh yeah?”

“My mom who’s American is in the foreign service, my other mom is a diplomat, it’s how they met back in Iran. So we’ve lived all over the place.”

That explains the accent. “That sounds so cool.”

“It was interesting. It kind of makes you miss out on a regular childhood, though.”

“I kinda know what you mean,” Mia says. “My dads are in music, that’s always been weird.”

Aya nods. “Right, a friend of mine pointed you out to me and mentioned that... I’d never actually heard of their band before. No offense, I just missed out on a lot of Western things like that.”

“No offense? Are you kidding? You’re my new favorite person, now.”

Aya laughs again, her eyes sparkling, then reaches up to fiddle with one of her earrings.

 

MALIBU, NOVEMBER 21, 2036

Dozens of cars are already lining the driveway when Mia pulls up in her Audi, and the whole house is lit up, strung with fairy lights along the perimeter and balconies, glowing with activity inside the glass walls.

A valet comes up to her and knocks on the window so she’ll roll it down. “Hello miss,” he says, and scans her watch. An electronic ticket pops up on its screen.

“A _valet_?” Aya whispers to Mia as they get out of the car. “I thought this was just a house party.”

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say that was my stepdad’s idea.”

As she had suspected she might, Mia spent a lot of time with Harry while her dad was in rehab. At first she was around ostensibly to keep the girls company, and then at some point that grew into her keeping Harry company, too.

They’ve never been super close — she’s always suspected he likes Amir better, that she reminds him too much of Louis. But her blunt frankness helped them power through any lingering awkwardness between them. And her barreling into his house every Thursday afternoon, screaming, “HARRY, I brought beignets,” to sit with him at the kitchen table and prod him for details about his Zayn-related sadnesses and anxieties, was probably something he really needed.

It wasn’t like he really had anyone else to confide in, anyway. Not about that. For someone who’s always surrounded by people, he seems lonely.

She and Aya head up the path to the front door together, and Mia waves her watch at the panel next to it. The door slides open, and the sound of laughter, talking, and live music pours out.

Zayn is passing through the foyer as Mia enters, and stops mid-stride to come over and wrap her up in a hug. “Yasmeen! Was expecting you like an hour ago.”

Wow, it really isn’t like him to pay attention to what time it is. Mia wonders if this is a newly-resoberized thing. “I know, sorry, traffic. Dad, this is Aya... she couldn’t be with her family for Eid, so I brought her along.”

Aya waves. “Hi.”

Zayn glances over Mia’s shoulder and lets her go so he can shake Aya’s hand. “Lovely to meet you. Eid Mubarak.”

“Eid Mubarak! Your house is gorgeous.”

“Thanks, love.” Zayn leans in to whisper in Mia’s ear, “Oi, look who finally brings home a nice girl, huh?”

“Shut up,” Mia says, laughing. “Where’s Harry?”

“Playing sitar with the band, if you can believe that.”

“Actually, that’s not hard to believe at all.”

“Alright, I have to get back to it, but you two go get yourself some food,” Zayn says, then heads off back into the crowd.

Mia watches him go. He’s been in a better mood lately; she’s relieved to see him happy like this.

He’s officially working on his memoirs now  — she was visiting Sacramento last week when Louis received an email with a draft of the chapter about their marriage, and from downstairs she could hear him reading it in his study, going, “Bullshit. Oh, _bullshit_ , Zayn.”

After this had gone on for some time, Liam (who was cooking frittatas with their new neighbor’s farm fresh eggs) suggested to Mia, “D’you want to go check on Tommo?” so she went upstairs and peeked in. Louis looked up at her, and without missing a beat, said, “Your father’s a wee bit of a fabulist.” She just smiled and said, “I know. That’s why we love him.”

Aya reaches out for Mia and tentatively trails her elegant fingers down Mia’s arm, clasping their hands together. Their bangles clink. “Did your dad call you Yasmeen?”

Mia nods, heart pounding at the contact, trying to force her palm not to sweat through sheer will. “It’s my middle name, it’s what he’s always called me.”

She smiles. “It’s pretty.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I guess it is.”

“You mind if I call you that too?”

Mia looks at her in surprise. “Sure,” she says softly. “I’d like that, actually.”

Aya squeezes her hand. “So. How afraid of embarrassing myself should I be, tonight?”

“Uh, are you normally embarrassing?”

She laughs. “No. But in front of celebrities? Maybe.”

“Well…” Mia leans around the corner to peer into the living room. “How into fashion are you?”

“Very. Love fashion.”

She can count three big designers in her line of sight alone. “Uh-oh. What about movies?”

“American movies, not so much.”

“Good,” Mia says. “How do you feel about Fleetwood Mac?”

She shrugs.

“I’m asking ‘cos Stevie Nicks is supposed to come by later.”

Aya’s eyes get huge. “She _is_? No way. You aren’t serious.”

Mia laughs. “C’mon,” she says, then leads her off toward the tables that are stacked with chafing dishes full of food and beautiful dessert tiers.

 

*

 

They end up sneaking onto the roof around midnight — the house has a widow’s walk that overlooks the ocean, and Mia can tell that Aya is getting a little overwhelmed around the time of her fortieth celebrity sighting, so she stuffs a bunch of pastries in her kurta pockets and beckons her up the stairs.

“Pretty,” Aya says admiringly, looking over the railing as Mia sits, unearthing a handful of slightly crushed macarons. “I love the ocean at night.”

“Me too,” Mia says. “What’s the Atlantic like? Is it warmer? I’ve heard it’s warmer.”

Aya sits down next to her and extends a manicured hand; Mia hands her two of the least-damaged cookies. “I’ve only been a few times,” she says. “My moms were usually too busy to take us, it’s a few hours drive from DC.”

“Gotcha,” Mia says, and pops a macaron in her mouth. “Wow, okay, these are really good. We're gonna have to go down and steal more, I already decided.”

Aya laughs. “You create a distraction, and I’ll just take the whole plate.”

“Perfect.”

“I went to the beach a lot more when we lived abroad, actually.”

“Which beaches?”

“Um, when I was little we went to Hormuz a lot. The ones in Dubai are beautiful… plus the Red Sea, the Black Sea, the Dead Sea. The Dead Sea’s my favorite. Best resorts.”

“I’m jealous.”

“I’m sure you’ve been tons of places, yourself,” Aya says.

“Yeah, but in a vacation-y, like, famous person way. If I go with my family, we can’t really do public beaches, it’s sequestered off places like Saint-Tropez. I’ve always wanted to just go somewhere and disappear. And I’ve never, y’know… I haven’t seen the East much at all. I’ve really just been to Japan and Bali. Dubai, once, but I never got to the beach.”

Saying this out loud, seeing the knit of Aya’s brow, she starts to embarrass over how insulated she’s been. How is it possible that she’s seen the world but never really seen the world at all? Just private beaches and resorts and ski lifts, infinity pools and bodyguards.

“You should go somewhere on your own sometime,” Aya says. “It’s the best way to travel.”

“I want to, I do.”

"Don't you travel for games?"

"Not really. We play a lot at home, and even when we go, it's like..." Mia shrugs. "Practice and then the game and then drinks after, or sometimes we get back on the plane right after the game. I don't get to see the places we go."

“Has your dad never taken you to Pakistan?” Aya says, and then very sneakily plucks the last cookie off of Mia’s lap. “Want to split this?”

“Nah, that’s all yours,” Mia says graciously, and Aya smiles. “No, never. I dunno. He’s been to India with my stepdad and their kids. My sisters, I mean. I think he’s just worried about terrorists and stuff, since we’d be targets… he gets anxious.” She drops her gaze. “I don’t wanna bore you, I feel like I’ve talked about all this in class.”

“No, you sort of talk around yourself in class,” Aya says. “You talk about your family, but not you, so much.”

Mia looks out over the black of the ocean, self-conscious. “I don’t know. That’s usually what people care about, is my family.”

“Well, not me,” Aya says, then cracks a smile. “No offense to them.”

Mia flicks her gaze back at her. “Sometimes I feel like I dunno who I am outside of them.”

Aya nods. “I sort of felt like that too. It’s why I came to California, actually… the poli-sci program is great, but I wanted to put some distance between myself and my family for once.” She smiles. “But I’m studying international relations, so in a way I’ve done nothing but follow my parents.”

“You’re like my brother,” Mia says. “He went away to Juilliard, but he’s still trying to be a musician.”

“Maybe its just destiny, in some ways.”

“Yeah,” Mia murmurs. “I dunno. I hope not. It’s all, like… I mean, my dad’s been going through some shit, lately. The one you just met.”

“He seemed fine,” Aya says.

“He hasn’t been,” Mia says, and a lump forms in her throat. “He just got back out of rehab, and stuff.”

“Oh, wow, I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You really don’t follow celebrity news?”

“I don’t. I mean, I see tabloid covers, and social media, things like that, but I don’t seek it out.”

“That’s so weird, ‘cos normally everyone knows what I’m going to say about my parents before I tell them. I can’t have anything that’s just a secret inside my family, and mine to say or hide. People pretend they don’t know, but I know they do. I know my team talks about that stuff behind my back sometimes.”

“That sounds awful,” Aya says. “I wouldn’t be able to trust anyone.”

“I kind of don’t,” Mia admits. “Even right now, I hate to admit it, I’m wondering if you’re like, scamming me.”

Aya laughs her tinkly laugh. “What would I want from you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Do you have any money?”

“It’s all in trust funds,” Mia says. “I have like two hundred bucks in my wallet, though.”

“Oh, well in that case,” Aya says, and jokingly points a finger gun at her. “Hand it over.”

Mia laughs.

“Do you want to know why I came up to you in the library?”

“Yes,” Mia begs. “Please.”

Aya lets out a dainty little sigh and then arranges her embroidered kaftan around her, stretching her legs out. “I’ve been curious about you,” she says. “Not your family, you _._ And I think you’re really cute.”

Mia sits there, deeply flattered but kind of confused. “I’m always just bumming around campus,” she says.

Aya shakes her head in amusement. “I like that you don’t wear makeup. You don’t need it.”

“But I come to that class straight from the gym, wearing like, smelly workout clothes.”

She laughs. “I can’t smell you from across the lecture hall!”

Mia laughs, too. “I guess not. Why are you curious about me, though?”

“Why not?” Aya says.

“I dunno,” Mia says. “You’re so beautiful, and like. Sophisticated.”

Her catlike eyes twinkle, and she smiles, flashing her teeth. “Am I?”

“Yeah! How many languages do you speak?”

“Fluently? Only five.”

“ _Five_? I can barely speak English.”

“Come on. You really don’t think you’re smart?”

“Not compared to everyone else,” Mia says, her heart aching a little bit. “I barely have time to do the reading for my classes. But my professors pass me through ‘cos I’m a jock. I’ve never gotten a failing grade on anything, I don’t even think it’s possible.”

It weighs on her, it does. She read this old article last year, _College Sports Are Affirmative Action for Rich White Students,_ and it filled her with terror. It talked all about how a lot of college athletes at elite schools aren’t that smart and aren’t even that athletic, but they are rich. Reading it, she didn’t even regret her privilege — that is what it is — but it fed into her worst fear that she’s nothing and no one of note. Just riding on coattails. And injured now, to boot, so even if she ever was a genuine talent on the soccer field, she’s already washed up.

“You say jock like it’s a bad thing,” Aya says.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “It’s just what I am.”

“How did that happen?”

Mia looks out at the ocean again. “My dad, like, the one who had me, he loves soccer. It makes him really happy. So he got me into it.”

Aya tilts her head. “Did you do it for him?”

“No,” she says softly. “I love it too. But I just felt maybe like I owed him something… I dunno. My parents had a rough divorce.”

Aya nods. “You two are close?”

“Really close, yeah.”

“That makes sense.”

“So your moms are still together?” Mia says, deflecting the conversation off herself, because she feels like she might tear up for no real reason.

“Yeah, they are.”

“What’s that like?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Aya says. “It’s nice, I guess. They’re happy.”

“You an only child?”

“I have an older brother, Sufjan.”

“Ahh, okay. You guys get along?”

“We do, but we aren’t very close,” Aya says. “And he’s a doctor, he’s doing his residency now, so I almost never see him.”

“That’s too bad,” Mia says softly.

Aya toys with the hem of her kaftan. “You’re close with your brother, right?”

“Yeah,” Mia says. “Amir.”

“Oh, _Amir_ ,” Aya repeats playfully.

She smiles. “The prince.”

“What’s he like?”

She sighs. “Um… he’s smart. Like actual smart, smartest person in my family, I think. He could have been a doctor or something, but that’s not what he’s about.”

“He’s always been a musician?”

“Always, yeah. He’s a good kid… he can be kind of an asshole sometimes, I guess, but maybe I just think that ‘cos I’m older.”

“I’m sure,” Aya says, smiling.

“Only by like a year. I think maybe he looks up to me, though.”

“He does,” Aya says. “Younger siblings always do.”

“You look up to your brother?”

“Of course.”

Mia nods. “Do you wish you guys were close?”

“I do.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, her expression now inscrutable. “Maybe we will be someday. Things change.”

“They do… they do.”

“So, here’s my thought,” Aya says, gracefully changing the subject. “We can either go back downstairs and get more macarons… Ooooor, we can pregame a little first.” She slides a slim bottle of sambuca out of her pocket.

Mia laughs. “You better hide that from God.”

“Oh, hey,” she says, eyes twinkling. “It’s supposed to be a celebration, right?”

Mia stretches her hand out, and Aya hands the bottle over. She twirls the cap off easily and takes a few shots directly from the bottle, then makes a face as her throat burns.

Aya takes it back. “You look like you’re in pain,” she says, chuckling.

“Ahhh,” Mia exhales roughly. “A little. I don’t drink much anymore.”

“No?”

“We’re not supposed to, during the season.” And she hadn’t much over the summer, either. She can’t help thinking about Zayn.

“I’m not giving you any more, then,” Aya says, then takes a shot herself, grimacing. Even her grimace is pretty.

“Oh, no no no. Keep it coming. I was just saying.”

They keep drinking and talking for a while, and end up leaning against the railing together. The slats dig into Mia’s back, but she doesn’t even feel it, because her shoulder is brushing Aya’s. The more she drinks, the more the black horizon blends into the black sea. Twinkling houses sparkle up and down the coast; they blur and streak in her vision.

Aya hands the bottle back to her, her dark eyes dancing. Mia takes another sip and is surprised to find there’s only backwash left.

“Where did it gooo,” she says, shaking it.

“You know where.”

“We did not drink all that. There’s no way.”

Aya leans her head onto Mia’s shoulder. Mia flushes with prickly heat, suppressing a smile.

“Hi,” Aya murmurs.

“Hi,” Mia says, and reaches tentatively for her thigh. Her fingers trace the silk fabric of Aya’s kaftan for a moment before her hand settles atop Mia’s.

“Ooh, look at the moon,” Aya says.

Mia looks. It’s an orangey crescent tonight, big and warm and low in the sky.

“Pretty,” she murmurs.

“Yeah.”

Mia turns her palm over, and Aya laces their fingers together almost immediately.

“Sorry, my hand’s sweaty,” Mia says.

“I don’t mind.”

She mulls something over in her head for a moment, gnawing at her lip. “Hey,” she says. “How do you feel about Iceland?”

“Oh, love it,” Aya says, squeezing her. “Iceland is beautiful.”

“Okay,” Mia says, smiling. “Good.”


End file.
